


the stars no longer shine (and the moon is alone)

by Morning_Glory_Skyes



Series: to deafen the world with a wail (i will grieve for you) [2]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Dehumanization, Don't copy to another site, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, I got yelled at for this, Monomon is Monomom, No beta we die like mne, a gentle moment between lesbians that is instantly interrupted, a look at whats going on in godhome, additional content: what happened after radiance dies, all the vessels have issues, breaking news: adult picks fight with child; loses, but crank the cain instinct up to eleven, but man i dont like writing her, elder hu did some shiiiiiit, get this man a cold drink he needs it, godseeker aint having a fun time lmao, grimm and radi are siblings, hALLOW NO THATS NOT HOW YOU REACT, hallow thinks of themself as an it, i have beef with WL, i like herrah, in all of her dialogue not once are the vessels referred to by anything other than 'it', instead of a fight he finds a boyfriend, luriens a simp LOL, pk attempting to dad; failing; and then succeeding in quick succession, pk has issues, pk no thats not how you dad, post EtV ending but its centuries earlier cause accidental time travel, rip traitor lords wife, seer is a hard character for me, tags will expand as i write, this one was so damn hard to write, time to learn how to mom WL you dont get a fucking choice, traveling warrior ant looking for a good time, u cant tell me the vessel plan wasnt last ditch effort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 27,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morning_Glory_Skyes/pseuds/Morning_Glory_Skyes
Summary: There is a ghost in Hallownest. Reports of its appearance have been coming in from all over. Mask as pale as bone, chitin as dark as void. Quiet like the yawning shadows.Privately, because he is the Assistant to Teacher Monomon and therefore not stupid, Quirrel thinks it's all bullshit.(A look atGrief is Just Love with No Place to Gothrough the eyes of everyone else.)
Series: to deafen the world with a wail (i will grieve for you) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985645
Comments: 782
Kudos: 504





	1. The Seer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maiden22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden22/gifts).



There is a ghost in Hallownest.

There is a ghost of void in Hallownest.

Seer feels it appear, as if from the very darkness of the Abyss. The way it shifts halfway to the left, and then further for good measure. She doesn't know why, but something about this kingdom has been irreparably changed.

Is it for the better? For the worse? For once, she has not seen this. Seer is as unaware of what will come as anyone else. She doesn't particularly care for it. The lack of knowledge concerns her.

Her dreams have slowly been coating themselves with orange. It's been this way since her fellow moths abandoned the Old Light. She doesn't blame the Pale Wyrm for it; he didn't force them to follow him. He was a closer light than She was, and so they turned their faces from the Radiance. Everything else he did is on his head, though.

She remembers when the Light had been gentle and soft, when her dreams had left her feeling refreshed and happy come morn. It had been a very long time since that last happened. Now they were filled with a burning light and orange glow. Seer may have never abandoned the Radiant Light, but that didn't mean she was safe. Each time she readies for slumber, she is less and less certain that she will greet the morning.

(Radiance did not take the betrayal very well. Seer both understands and despises it.)

Something passes through the Resting Grounds below her, and she shudders at the slick sensation that passes along her fluff. Something old, though not as old as her--something ancient. More than just its presence, she can feel its mind. Strong and endless, cool in the face of the burning sun.

Seer pulls away from it, knowing that if she pushes any closer she will fall. The coolness of its endless shadows are alluring and she longs for the simpler times when the light did not burn. Did not scorch her for staying faithful in the face of desertion.

The sensation fades as whatever it is retreats away from her and towards the Blue Lake. Seer tilts her head upwards and focuses, following its progress until she can no longer sense it. Like she lost her son when he passed out of her range. She hasn't felt him in a very long time.

(Deep down, a part of her knows that her child has perished in the Light. She ignores it. Her son will return home.)

So she rests and waits, and the days turn into nights and her dreams into nightmares. The shadows grow longer and then shorter. Still, she waits. For what, she doesn't know.

Then someone else enters the Resting Grounds, long since fallen into disrepair. It's only her now tending the graves of those who have passed on. Seer tilts her head, startled by the presence. It's intimately familiar.

She knows them.

Footsteps come into her hearing range, and draw ever closer. "Mother?" a voice calls, so familiar that she recognizes it instantly but doesn't dare to hope, and the curtain to her home sweeps aside.

He has to duck to enter, too tall for her doorway, and his armor is covered in flecks of gray ash, but she would know him anywhere. It's her son. Seer stumbles to her feet and wraps him in a hug. Markoth looks surprised for a moment, then huffs and returns it. "I'm home," he says, softly.

It takes Seer a long time to compose herself, so certain was she of her son's death. He waits patiently as she brews them tea, taking the time to remove his armor piece by piece and set it aside. There are many things she wishes to ask. How was your trip, where have you been, are you all right? "You swore you wouldn't come back until you had answers," Seer instead chooses, because she never saw this.

Markoth frowns and then sighs heavily. "I dreamed I was fighting a ghost," he says at last. "So small I at first thought I was fighting a child. But they proved me wrong. Such skill, such fierceness, such strength for such a small body. I did not recognize them, but they countered me easily. Like they knew my every move before I would take it. Before I would even think of moving, they were already out of the way."

"An odd dream, I'm sure."

He shakes his head. "They did not speak, but asked where I was. Intrigued, I told them. They then warned me. Said something was lurking there. That I should leave at once."

Seer takes a sip of her tea and ponders this. "You listened despite it being no more than a dream?"

Markoth sighs heavily and closes his eyes. "I forfeited the fight. It went white and I. . ." He swallows. "It was like I couldn't wake up. Something kept me there. When I finally woke up, there was a thick layer of ash covering me and I was coughing orange."

His mother sucks in a harsh breath and almost drops her cup in her haste to get to his side. Markoth lets her, when normally he would scowl and complain, and it only makes her more worried. She searches him. Nothing. Not even a trace of orange. "You lived," she breathes.

"I did." Markoth gently refills her cup from the pot. "As soon as I could get out of there, I left. Made a straight line back here." He pauses and then chuckles. "Or at least as straight a line as one can get from Kingdom's Edge to the Resting Grounds." 

(They both feel it then, a howling scream of rage that sweeps through the Resting Grounds. The sound is agony, mixed with the undertone of something more, something triumphant, and it chills them to their very core. The kingdom rolls beneath their feet and Seer sucks in a harsh breath as the world shifts even further to the left than it already had.)

(She glances at her son. Markoth looks stunned, and there's even a little bit of fear on his face. She understands the feeling. It's not often that one is aware of the death of a god.)


	2. The Pure Vessel

There is a vessel in the White Palace.

There is a ghost of a vessel in the White Palace.

This vessel is not pure, no matter how hard it tries. It tries so hard, too. To be what its father wants, desires, requires. But it can't, its just too impure. But its father is desperate for a solution, with the way his people are suffering and dying, and it cannot bring itself to break that.

Even if it knows its father's plan will fail. Is it selfish? Perhaps.

It wants to spend a little more time with him. With its mother.

It doesn't want to be sealed within the temple, binding the burning light. But its fate was sealed the moment it crawled to the top of the Abyss and let its sibling fall. It has betrayed its own for a taste of a light that doesn't burn.

Does it even deserve what it wants?

(It isn't supposed to have desires. No voice to speak, no mind to break, no will or desires. It lives a lie.)

(It will continue to live this lie, if only because it is selfish.)

Every time its father calls for it, his voice a thousand tones and layers focusing on it, Pure Vessel basks in his light. It straightens, its void practically vibrating in happiness, and doesn't so much as twitch as its father comes to a halt in front of it.

"Pure," its father says, and it notes that father seems more tired than usual. Its void tightens, guilt curling within its gut. It must be perfect, must be pure, must be ready to contain the light. If only so its father can sleep a little better at night. "You will be late for training."

He turns and strides down the hallway, his light a little dimmer than normal, and Pure follows obediently. It must be perfect, must be empty, must be everything that its father desires. Pure isn't meant to be anything else.

It has just finished molting for the final time. It's clumsy now, being almost a foot taller with longer horns, and Pure is struggling to adapt quick enough. It must be better. It can't disappoint the Great Knights that father was kind enough to have train it. It can't, it can't, it can't.

Pure strides down the hallway after its father, pure nail feeling so incredibly heavy against its back. It can smell Ogrim up ahead and wants to grimace, but doesn't. It can't. As a vessel, perfectly pure and empty, hollowed out to the core, it must not react to something as simple as a disliked smell. Pure very much prefers sparring with someone with a large weapon such as Hegemol or Ze'mer. Or Isma. Or even Dryya, as much as it dislikes trying to hit a small, flying opponent. Anyone other than Ogrim.

(Sometimes, when night has fallen and they are unable to sleep and dream, it wonders about itself. Its life as the Pure Vessel and its life in the palace. It considers its future as the Sealed Vessel. It thinks and thinks, and then realizes its thinking. It is no more than a vessel; no mind to break. It stops thinking.)

(It tries to stop thinking. Sometimes it thinks until the morning has come and its father gives its orders for the day.)

It finds the Great Knights waiting in the training grounds and strides forward, drawing its nail. It slides into the first stance, center of balance higher with its longer legs, and tries not to tip forward. It succeeds, barely, and can see the way the Knights exchange quick glances with each other. Father retreats to the side, his light a constant reminder of his presence. It's warm. Pure cannot disappoint its father. It can't, it can't, it can't. It simply cannot allow such a thing to happen. It must be pure, must be perfect, must be everything father needs. 

Ogrim steps forward, idly clacking the sharp blades attached to his arm and Pure steadies its breath, readying its nail. It darts forward, almost stumbling when the ground comes up to meet its foot faster then expected, and swings its nail towards the Great Knight. Its nose wrinkles with the smell the closer it gets. It leaps backwards when the attack is blocked and finds itself further back than before. Longer range, too, as its arms are capable of reaching a longer distance. Everything is off. 

Pure grinds its void together in frustration and lunges to the side. It can't use spells for this fight, not without orders from father, but it wants to badly. Wants to see how its molt has changed its power and strength. Pure's blade slams against Ogrim's arms and it finds itself locked into a battle of strength with the Defender. It pushes down on the blade harder, straining under the effort of forcing the large beetle backwards. Pure is tired already, its energy low after the strain of dragging off old chitin and flesh for hours.

Its molt has made it clumsy and it finds itself skidding wrong after a blow from Ogrim. The extra foot in height throws off its balance, and it resents it. The way its horns are so much longer make it even worse. Pure is more top-heavy than it used to be in the past. It thrusts its nail into the dirt and pants. Its void snarls in frustration at its pathetic performance. It can't even handle the Knights that it used to be able to defeat so quickly. It hates this so much. It drags its nail out of the ground and hauls it upwards, sliding back into its stance despite its tiredness. It's thinking too much again. Pure darts forward, body straining with the effort, and tries not to think.

It isn't perfect, not the way its father wants, desires, needs it to be. 

Impure. Imperfect. Full of void and emotions and thoughts. Useless in the end.

It must be better than what it is.

It must be perfect.

For father.

(It can't afford to be anything else.)


	3. Markoth

There is a ghost in the Pantheon of the Faithful.

There is a ghost of a moth in the Pantheon of the Faithful.

Markoth is certain that he is dreaming. Last time he'd checked, he'd been resting in the farthest part of Kingdom's Edge. He's definitely not there now. The arena is huge, thousands of bugs with the same identical mask staring down at him. One of them sits upon a gilded throne, watching his every movement.

It reminds Markoth uncomfortably of the Coliseum of Fools.

He glances around nervously and blinks when the light brightens. Markoth covers his eyes for a moment, cursing in the old tongue of the moths. He blinks away the spots and starts when a child stands across from them. Or, at least, he thinks it's a child.

His opponent is small, barely tall enough to reach his thighs, with horns that curve inwards, two points at the end. The nail on their back, though, gleams with a pure light. Markoth bows, determined to treat them politely, even if they're young. He draws his nail from his side and hefts his shield onto his other arm, sliding into a defensive stance.

The little ghost standing across from him tilts their head to the side, then reaches beneath their cape and draws out a charm. Markoth's eyes narrow slightly but the distance between them is too far for him to make out the design. Then the little one equips it and a circling Dreamshield forms around them.

Markoth's eyes grow huge and his brain grinds to a halt. That's a charm that's unique to the Moth Tribe. No outsider should ever have access to that. And yet, here he is, standing across from a ghost that can wield it. He drags himself back together when the little one waves again at him, attracting his attention to the small, glowing handle in their hands.

No way.

The Dreamnail activates and slices through the air and Markoth's jaw hits the floor of the arena. How in the Old Light's name does the little one have that?! Last time he'd checked, his mother had guarded that Dreamnail viciously. Even he, her son, hadn't been able to wield it. She was not likely to hand that out to just anyone.

The little ghost bows to him. They're clearly laughing, their shoulders shaking with glee as they slip the Dreamnail handle back into their cloak. Markoth would be embarrassed to be laughed at, but he's too stunned to do so. They draw their nail and swipe it once, giving him a chance to see it.

It's all Pure Ore, intricately etched with designs and swirls. A work of art in a weapon. Markoth eyes it, impressed. A blade like that definitely cost a pretty geo. They take a step forward and Markoth hefts his shield higher, bracing himself as their nail crashes down upon it. The sound rings out across the arena, the ghost dashing towards him as he swings down his blade.

Somehow, they pass directly through his form, and Markoth is left feeling like the name is very apt. Ghost indeed. He whirls and parries their blow, exchanging a swift series of them that leave his shield dented and blade ringing. Apparently, despite being maybe a third of his height at best, this little one can hit as hard as a Great Hopper.

Markoth isn't fond of that, not in the slightest.

He's pretty sure they're pulling their strength, too. They're leaving dents in his shield even now. Somehow, he knows they can do more. Markoth leaps backwards away from them, infusing Soul into the blade to send a massive slash forward. The ghost leaps over it, but doesn't come any closer. They tilt their head sideways and then wave a hand, drawing his attention to it.

" _Where are you dreaming at?_ "

Markoth frowns, parsing out the sloppy one-handed signs until he understands the question. He slices his blade downwards, the ghost dashing out of the way. "Kingdom's Edge," he eventually says, slowly, like he's not supposed to be saying it but does so anyway. The ghost actually pauses in their movements.

" _You should leave,_ " they sign, and it's verging on frantic. " _There's something lurking there._ "

He hesitates slightly, but continues exchanging blows with the ghost. Should he? He swore he wouldn't return until he'd found the answers he'd wanted. But there's something off about this dream. The beings in the audience stare at him, like they're judging his every movement. The way he feels like he's actually taking damage here, hemolymph oozing out of the small cuts on his body.

Markoth takes a step back and then another. He bows slowly, indicating a retreat. The dream glows white around him, the arena fading from view. Then it changes, orange seeping in and choking him. Markoth drops his blade and shield, reaching up to clutch at his throat. He coughs, no air in his lungs, and then it fades to black.

(He wakes up in Kindgom's Edge. Ash coats his slumped form thickly and orange drips from his mouth. Markoth wipes it away, spitting the sweet taste out. Small wounds scatter across his body, just barely bleeding. He needs to leave here. Now.)

* * *

It's a long trip from Kingdom's Edge to the Resting Grounds but he makes his way there, pausing only in a nearby hot spring to heal his wounds. His mother would worry if he showed up bleeding like that and he'd rather not deal with the fussing.

Her home is at the top of the area, close to the Stag Station that is rarely used these days, and Markoth hops upwards, flaring his wings to better reach the platforms. "Mother?" he calls, reaching to pull the curtain aside so he can duck to enter. She sits there, half paused in a movement to get up, and stares at him with wide eyes. "I'm home."

For a long moment she doesn't so much as twitch, then is up and into the adjourning room like a shot. He watches her go, confused, but relaxes when the familiar hiss of boiling water reaches him. She's making tea. He settles in, removing his armor and neatly folding his long legs, and smiles faintly when his mother hands him his favorite cup.

She's quiet for a while, just sipping at her tea. Markoth hums at the pleasant taste of smoke and spices. "You swore you wouldn't come back until you had answers."

He frowns. "I dreamed I was fighting a ghost. So small I at first thought I was fighting a child. But they proved me wrong. Such skill, such fierceness, such strength for such a small body. I did not recognize them, but they countered me easily. Like they knew my every move before I would take it. Before I would even think of moving, they were already out of the way."

"An odd dream, I'm sure."

Markoth shakes his head no. "They did not speak, but asked where I was. Intrigued, I told them. They then warned me. Said something was lurking there. That I should leave at once."

His mother takes a sip of her tea. "You listened? Despite it being no more than a dream?"

"I forfeited the fight. It went white and I. . ." He swallows. "It was like I couldn't wake up. Something kept me there. When I finally woke up, there was a thick layer of ash covering me and I was coughing orange."

His mother sucks in a harsh breath and almost drops her cup in her haste to get to his side. Markoth lets her, even though he would normally complain about this sort of thing. He'd be worried, too. She searches him thoroughly, only relaxing when there's no sign of orange. "You lived," she breathes.

"I did." Markoth gently refills her cup from the pot as she settles back down. "As soon as I could get out of there, I left. Made a straight line back here." He pauses and then chuckles. "Or at least as straight a line as one can get from Kingdom's Edge to the Resting Grounds."

She clutches her hands together. "It doesn't matter. You're home, you're safe. That's all that matters."

Markoth clicks his tongue. "Speaking of things that matter. The ghost I fought in the dream had both the Dreamshield charm and the Dreamnail."

His mother stills, but reaches within her fluffy ruff and--

Pauses.

Searches for a moment, then raises her eyes to meet his. Markoth holds his breath.

"They're both gone," she whispers. "They were just here this morning."

(They both feel it then, a howling scream of rage that sweeps through the Resting Grounds. The sound is agony, mixed with the undertone of something more, something triumphant, and it chills him to his very core. The kingdom rolls beneath their feet and his mother sucks in a harsh breath. Markoth sits there, stunned, feeling like some very deep part of him has been ripped away.) 

(His mother closes her eyes and weeps.)


	4. Grimm

There is a ghost in the Wastes.

There is a ghost of a nightmare in the Wastes.

This nightmare bubbles and glows, tingeing the world around it a deep rosy red. Grimm slumbers within it, drifting lazily to the sound of the beating Nightmare Heart. He's relaxed for the first time in months, just enjoying the dream as the Troupe travels through the barren wasteland. There's nothing around them, but his influence still protects them.

The sound of the heartbeat grows louder and Grimm opens a single eye, glaring out into the darkness of his wagon. He's alone, the others in the Troupe knowing better than to disturb him when he sleeps. There's no reason why the heart should be beating so frantically. He wraps his wings closer around him and tries to go back to sleep.

His sister's furious death scream is unwanted and entirely unwarranted.

He screeches in surprise and crashes to the floor of the wagon, his face smashing against the wood. Pain shoots through his skull and his body and Grimm groans. He clutches at his head and tries to get up, then freezes. His wings have torn during the fall, his claws having sliced through them while he was crashing down.

Grimm closes his eyes and lets the power of the Nightmare Heart wash over him, feeling the wounds seal shut. Slowly, he gets to his feet and collects his cape from its hook. His wings fold against his back and Grimm throws it over himself, still nursing his headache from his sister's screaming.

What a gods be damned bitch. Of course she'd spend her dying breath screaming in his ears. That's exactly the level of petty bullshit she'd pull on him.

To be fair, Grimm would do the exact same thing to her. But right now he's nursing the worst of headaches and he doesn't care. If she'd finally gone and kicked the bucket, the least he can do as her brother is to go and erect a grave.

And then spit on it.

As far as he's concerned, she'd long since earned his contempt. The last time Grimm had seen his sister, she'd tried to brutally murder him. She'd come close to succeeding, too. Grimm had fled that fight with hemolymph gushing from the gaping wound on his chest. He'd barely survived that one. It had taken far more Lifeseeds, hot springs, and healing spells than Grimm would like to admit.

The caravan has ground to a halt by the time he shoves the curtains aside, and Grimm comes face to face with a very surprised Brumm. Rather reasonable, given that Grimm doesn't usually come out of his wagon until long after the camp has been set up. "We," Grimm seethes, pressing a hand against his aching skull, "are changing plans. Set a course to Hallownest and the Pale Wyrm's territory."

Brumm raises a single brow. "Master? Are you sure?"

Grimm snarls, his jaw splitting into thousands of razor sharp teeth. Brumm hums at the sight but doesn't so much as twitch. "My sister finally did me the dignity of dying." His eyes flash red and fire curls around each tooth. "Her last action, the fucking bitch, is to scream in my ears." Grimm straightens up and takes several deep breaths, smoothing down the cloak over his form. "I'm going to spit on her grave if it's the last thing I do."

"As you wish, Master. I'll tell the Grimmsteeds to change course." Brumm turns and heads off towards where the steeds are sitting comfortably, a map in front of their noses.

"And someone bring me something for my headache!"

Grimm whirls around and heads towards the fire where several of the others are already sitting. They snap to attention when he drops gracelessly down and Grimm sighs. There's a cooking pot over the fire and he sticks his finger in the liquid bubbling inside He shoves it into his mouth and hums. Spicy soup, apparently. "Change of plans."

"How so, Master?" One of his braver Grimmkin asks the question, carefully stirring the soup.

He stretches lazily and takes a bowl, idly filling it. It's good, just spicy enough to make him breath fire without using Soul. "We're heading to Hallownest. My bitch of a sister finally croaked and I need to go laugh at her."

_And maybe take over her realm_ , he thinks, but doesn't say. The lure of her lost power is very strong indeed. Besides, he's the God of Nightmares. It's only logical that he should be the one to ascend over the Realm of Dreams.

Grimm shovels the soup into his mouth. There's no way he can pretend that he's grieving his sister. She was a bitch and tried to kill him several times. Admittedly, he's done the same to her, quite a bit too. They never really did get along very well. Most of the time it was attempted murder. If it wasn't that, they ignored the other's existence. 

(He's rather miffed that someone else managed to off the bitch. Grimm isn't sure if he should gut them or send them a gift. Maybe he'll do both.)

Perhaps while he is in Hallownest, Grimm can drop in on his favorite person to annoy. The last time he was there, the Wyrm had threatened his head. Quite colorfully, even. Grimm finds his shoulders shaking as he muffles his laughter and his Grimmkin nervously edge away from him.

What is a dance without a partner willing to clash blades? 

He does so enjoy it when the Pale Wyrm fluffs up with anger, his wings bristling widely beneath his robes. There's something so glorious about riling up the normally composed ruler. Especially when the other is spitting so furiously that his magic is glitching around him. When he's so far past words that all he can do is draw his blade and lash out at Grimm.

They do dance so wonderfully with each other. Grimm is definitely looking forward to visiting Hallownest once again. 

He refills his bowl and sips from it, a wide smirk gracing his face. Grimm really must thank his sister for having the grace to up and fucking die.


	5. Quirrel

There is a ghost in Hallownest.

There is a ghost of a memory in Hallownest.

No one knows where this ghost came from, or where it is going, or even where, or what, it is. 

Regardless, reports of its appearance have been coming in from all over. The size does not change; every singe story speeaks of its small statue, just barely bigger than a child. Most speak of two eyes, set within the center of the emotionless mask. They all confirm that it has two arms, just like most of the bugs in Hallownest. Only a few speak of seeing this ghost unarmed. But most things remain consistent. 

Mask as pale as bone, chitin as dark as void. Always quiet, like the ever yawning shadows.

Privately, because he is the Assistant to Teacher Monomon and therefore not stupid, Quirrel thinks it's all bullshit.

He's been around for a while here, just working at the Archives as Monomon's assistant. Quirrel enjoys it. Being able to archive and record the history of such a kingdom is amazing. There's nothing quite like knowing that others will remember your accomplishments for centuries to come.

But this? This is a new level of annoyance. And busywork.

It's not spoken of out loud, but Quirrel is just unassuming enough that he can listen in to the whispers. Seems like almost everyone has seen this so called ghost.

Quirrel sighs and leans back, frowning down at the stone tablets full of writing in front of him. He pushes his mask up and rubs at his face, attempting to ward off the building headache. Almost every single report is slightly different and Quirrel feels like he's slowly losing his mind.

Not exactly a good thing in the middle of an infection-based pandemic.

He groans and shuffles the tablets again, reading through one of the ones from a mosskin in Greenpath. This ghost is small, barely taller than some of their own mosslings, about the height of a few year old hatchling, with horns that curve inwards in tiny, two-pronged spikes. The mosskin goes in great detail describing this ghost, from the shape of the mask to the horns to their chitin to the cloak that covers their frame to the way it doesn't quite hide their tiny arms. There is even a mention of a nail, gleaming and pale and incredibly sharp, reasonable given that the ghost was in Greenpath and even that area is not particularly nice to outsiders.

(Apparently they had spotted this ghost as it dashed across a puddle of acid in the deepest parts of Greenpath. Quirrel doesn't know whether to cry of exasperation or laugh himself sick.)

A shadow falls over him and he glances upwards, blinking at the sight of Monomon leaning over him. The slope of her shoulders reveal she's tired. Very tired.

She pulls one of the tablets closer and starts reading through it, the mask on her face hiding her emotions perfectly. "Have you found anything useful?"

Quirrel shakes his head. "Other than the reports being consistent up to a certain point? No."

Monomon trails a tendril across the tablet, tracing a line of text. "Mask as pale as bone, chitin as dark as void, quiet like the yawning shadows. Doesn't that remind you of something? Or, should I say, someone?"

"His majesty said there was only one of them," Quirrel retorts. "And we know the Pure Vessel can't be small." He reaches across the table and grabs another tablet, reading through it quickly. "Here. As small as a child." Quirrel skims through the report and frowns. "It does mention horns like a vessel though. Do you think. . .?"

Monomon shakes her head. She glances around and then lowers her voice until Quirrel can barely hear it. "His majesty admitted to me that most of His children with His wife were stillborn. He shut up immediately afterwards and I didn't have the heart to pry further." She sighs and gathers up the tablets. "You should take a break. His majesty will be by later to speak with me about something. He wouldn't tell me much in the letter but He seemed worried."

Quirrel gets to his feet and stretches slowly, feeling his chitin stretch. He's cramped after sitting slouched over for hours and a walk outside of the archives sounds like a good idea. Grabbing a book from his desk before leaving, he passes by a group of his fellow archivists and tilts his head. They're discussing the Ghost, apparently marking it off as bullshit, and Quirrel can't stop the laugh that escapes him.

He covers his mouth as he steps out the front door of the Archives, clutching the book to his chest with his free hand. The laughter is bright and gentle and he closes his eyes against the bright light of Fog Canyon. It takes a moment for him to adjust and Quirrel turns, humming softly as he heads towards a good area to read for a while.

A muffled sound startles him before he can head off too far, though, and Quirrel turns, surveying the landscape. Aside from the large boulders dotting the ground of the canyon, there's nothing there. He frowns and tilts his head to the side, now actively focusing on whatever noises he can hear.

It comes again. Muffled and choked off. Like someone is barely keeping from sobbing. Something pulls in Quirrel's chest and he takes a step forward, gaze sweeping from side to side in an attempt to pinpoint where it's coming from.

Something moves in the deepest shadows of the boulders, darting away before he can do much more than open his mouth. They're incredibly fast, barely more than a blur, but what Quirrel does see shakes him to his core.

Mask as pale as bone, chitin as dark as void, quiet like the yawning shadows. Pitch black tears spill down over the mask, soaking into the fabric of a well-worn cloak. They quickly vanish into the deeper parts of the shadows but Quirrel knows what he has just seen.

There is a ghost in Fog Canyon.


	6. The Pale King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pk's name is Ambrosia.

There is a ghost in the kingdom of Wyrm.

There is a ghost of a memory in the kingdom of Wyrm.

Ambrosia is aware of many things, but this, he is annoyed to admit, isn't. There is a ghost in his lands, walking among his people. In these times, with the Light of a Raging Goddess burning his lands, he has to be very careful about this.

(There are thousands of shells down in the Abyss that speak of his mistakes. The sounds of them falling haunt him to this day.)

(Sometimes he goes to the door and stands there, letting the sounds wash over him. Refuse and regret, most of them his own.)

He straightens himself upon his throne and breathes in slowly, ignoring the urge to fidget with his mask and crown. The nobles parade before him, an endless list he barely knows the names of. Beside him, the Pure Vessel stands at attention. The gaze behind the mask is blank. Just the way he designed it to be.

(Deep inside of himself, Ambrosia knows that his child is not empty. For the sake of his kingdom, he ignores and pretends he hasn't seen otherwise.)

(No cost too great.)

(He hates himself.)

A noble bends their knee before him and bows low, pressing their mask against the floor. He leans back against the throne and tries to not sigh as they begin rambling about nothing. Ambrosia is the Pale King. The nobles see him as a god. He is a god. He cannot afford to be anything else.

The infection bubbles higher each passing day. More and more of his people are slipping under and his stress grows with it. The Pure Vessel is his last ditch effort to save them all. They, it, they, it must be empty. Must be able to contain Her burning light. Must be able to save them all through its sacrifice.

Ambrosia waves the noble away once they're done speaking and desperately ignores the burgeoning headache that's forming. Something has changed within the last few days. Something big. Only a few days earlier had the world shifted slightly. Something had stretched against his senses, brushed against his light. But when he had gone to look, nothing. There was nothing.

Worried, he had shut himself in his workshop and had studied and experimented until he'd passed out from exhaustion.

The Pure Vessel may have been his last ditch effort against the infection, but that didn't mean Ambrosia was happy to use it.

(The Abyss is a grave of his children.)

(So many stillborn, and so many more died to his desperation. Too late he realized they weren't empty. He may not have the blood directly on his hands, but his dreams are haunted every night. The Radiant Light made sure of that.)

The door slams open and one of the guards from the City of Tears blurs into the room at top speed, their wings vibrating so fast he can hear it from where he is sitting. Ambrosia finds himself sitting up straighter. "Sire!" the bug yelps. Their spear is slung in a way to increase their speed and it thumps against the ground as they land.

Ambrosia pulls himself to his feet and tucks his hands beneath his robes. Soul sparks at the tips of his fingers just in case. "We assume there is news?"

"Sire," the bug pants, and their eyes are wide beneath their helmet. They're panting heavily, clearly having not stopped for a rest. "It's dying! The infection is dying!" The court goes dead silent, every single bug hardly daring to breathe.

(Behind him, the Pure Vessel goes so still he almost mistakes it for a statue.)

"Excuse me?" he squeaks, completely off guard. His voice has rapidly gone upwards in pitch and he coughs to clear it before continuing. "What do you mean the infection is dying?"

The guard nods so rapidly Ambrosia is half afraid their head will come right off. "There was a shift in the air last night, sire. This morning it really started showing. The festering bubbles started popping and dissolving, the veins dying back and withering. Some of the lesser infected have started waking up."

Ambrosia stumbles backwards and collapses back into his throne, mind whirling. "Gone," he wheezes, fingers digging into the chitin of his thighs. It hurts. This isn't a dream. "It's really dying?"

"Apparently so, sire." The guard sounds just as stunned. "The Keeper of the Spire wishes to know what to do?"

What to do now, indeed. The Pale King straightens and taps his claws together nervously. "Look after them. Make sure they recover and that this isn't just some ploy." The guard nods and then buzzes off, wings lifting them quickly. They're gone within a few seconds. Ambrosia slumps slightly, feeling very much like the world has been grabbed from beneath him.

Gods don't just up and die. There is a cause. Something happened. She wouldn't just up and die like that. Radiance is far too spiteful. If she had to go down, so would the entire world.

(At least her brother, the Nightmare King, is far more reasonable to deal with.)

Ambrosia dismisses the court early, mind far too preoccupied. The nobles file out quickly, gossiping about the infection dying. Ambrosia is aware of their barely contained panic. He's the same way, if he's being entirely honest. Panic burns thick in his throat. Is she really dead? Is this some stupid cruel joke?

He sweeps from the throne room and heads straight for his workshop. The Pure Vessel follows obediently behind him through the halls. Eventually Ambrosia pauses, turns, and waves it. . . them off. "Go to your mother, please," he manages. "I would like to be alone for a while." They turn without a sound and stride down the hallway. Ambrosia has just enough presence of mind to watch them glance back at him before vanishing around a corner.

(They are definitely not empty. Ambrosia is an idiot and a fool.)

(No cost too great. No cost too great. No cost too great. Sometimes, the cost is far too great.)

(The broken, shattered shells coating the bottom of the Abyss haunt him. They always will.)


	7. Herrah the Beast

There is a ghost in the pantheon of Masters.

There is a ghost of a spider in the Pantheon of Spiders.

She does not know where she is, or even why she is there. There is a small child standing in front of her. Something demands that she kill it. That it's an enemy. It whispers in her ears, creates an image in her mind of the creature slaughtering her child.

Herrah draws her blade. To protect her daughter, she will kill anyone. The Pale Wyrm may have gifted her with her daughter, but she'd fight him too if she had to.

The child standing across from her takes a very nervous step backwards, but then steels themself and draws their nail. It glints in the light and she frowns at it, noticing that it's made of Pure Ore. That will definitely hurt, should she get hit by it. Well, then, she'll just have to not do so.

She lunges forward and swings, a horizontal swing that cuts through the air and the little ghost screeches in horror, flinging themself out of the path of her blade. They're fast and small enough that they're hard to hit. But, and she knows this well, only a few hits will be enough to take them down.

Herrah swings again, blade coming down like a death knell, and the ghost leaps out of her path. They skid beneath her blade, right up against her side, and --

PAIN

It's Abyssal Shriek, a spell she has seen but had never felt. It burns against her side, tearing through her body. The howling of the spell rattles in her head, and the explosion sends her rocking backwards.

Clearly she needs a little more than just her lone nail. With a snarl she flings back the edges of her cloak and uncurls her lower two sets of arms, each one grabbing a short blade from its sheathe. The ghost yowls and recoils backwards. She bears down on them, swinging her blades in a pattern that is difficult to dodge.

The ghost doesn't even try. They lunge forward towards her and, at the very last second, phase right through. Their nail smashes against her open back. Herrah skids to a halt and whirls on them, lashing out in pain. They phase through her again and she howls in rage, turning to keep them in view.

Herrah stomps forward and the ghost wails, wrapping themselves in dark void and slamming into her. Just as Abyssal Shriek hurt, so does this spell. She doesn't know the name of it, but apparently it gives them the same moments of invincibility as the dash.

She curses and attempts to dart backwards, swinging at them in an attempt to keep them from getting closer, but the ghost is faster. They're within range immediately and do not hesitate. Each Abyssal Shriek they slam into her hurts more than the last and Herrah can hear herself screaming in pain. The void burns as it cuts through her. She drops to a knee.

The arena fades from view and she finds herself floating in orange. "Defend your child," something whispers into her ears. "Defend them to your death."

"Yes," Herrah agrees.

(She sees the Ghost a total of three times, then the dream turns to black. Something screams.)

(Herrah wakes up with a headache, feeling very much like she escaped something bigger.)

Her daughter barrels into her as soon as she leaves her room, scrambling up her frame and settling between her horns. She's chattering wildly about the weaverlings and silk weaving, practically begging between words to learn how to make soul-silk. Herrah huffs a laugh and reaches up to grab her daughter, gingerly removing the little one from her horns.

Herrah has a hell of a headache as it is. "Perhaps we should eat first, my child." Hornet nods enthusiastically, hopping down out of her mothers arms and barreling for the door. Midwife snorts from where she lies, lazily curled up in a nest of webs and weaving silk with her claws.

"She has been talking nonstop since she woke up," Midwife informs her, deeply amused.

Herrah settles down near her and frowns at the silk. Despite having been awake for a little bit down, her headache is still as strong as ever. It feels like someone had torn through her brain, found her deepest fears, and used them against her.

Now awake, she holds nothing against the little ghost she fought. She isn't certain what kind of dream it was, but she knows well the determination to survive. Herrah fought for her daughter. Who knows what the ghost fought for.

She makes her way out to where her daughter is waiting. Hornet is bouncing around, waving a shellwood needle enthusiastically. "Have you eaten yet, my child?"

Hornet giggles and nods. "Midwife caught me a vengefly!" she exclaims, snapping her teeth beneath her mask. Herrah chuckles softly. Her daughter's teeth and small size are one of the few things that she gained from her sire.

(The Pale Wyrm has quite the set of fangs. He doesn't display them, but a select few are aware of their existence.)

The infection hasn't quite spread to Deepnest, not yet anyway. She fears the day it does. Her people will be in danger. Herrah swallows and reaches down to pick her daughter up, pressing her against her side. Soon the time will come where the Pale King collects upon his promise.

Eventually the infection will be sealed within the Pure Vessel. The Temple of the Black Egg will be locked, and she will Dream to keep it so. She will leave her daughter behind to protect her people. Herrah tucks her daughter's face against her throat, pretending that she won't cry.

Hornet isn't even old enough to understand why she would have to do this. Herrah does this for her child, for her people.

And, as much as she dislikes the Pale Wyrm, she understands why he asks this of her.

(If she was in the same place, she can't deny that. . . she might do the same thing.)


	8. Lurien the Watcher

There is a ghost in the City of Tears.

There is a ghost of _something_ in the City of Tears.

Lurien does not know what this ghost is, only that he is vaguely aware of their presence. He wishes that he knew more, but his foresight has been alarmingly silent on the matter. They're in his city, walking among his people, and Lurien knows nothing.

He thinks he's allowed to be worried. People have been going missing for quite some time now. Not a single body has ever been found, no matter how hard the guards search. The 'Missing Persons' list continues to grow longer by the day. Lurien is slowly becoming more desperate.

At this point, he'll take a goddamn miracle if only for some answers.

Lurien is almost desperate enough to seek an audience with His majesty. Not because he wishes to, once again, bask within His glorious presence, but because he cannot lose any more people in his city. He was appointed Watcher, and Keeper of the Spire, and Lurien is honored to do his duty. Something is killing those he is supposed to look after and Lurien finds himself helpless.

The lack of Foresight, a gift he was born with, is incredibly alarming. Despite being almost constantly open, his Third Eye has seen nothing.

(What is even more alarming is he can no longer feel the ghost within the city. Its presence had spiked, furious wrath spilling through the air, and then had vanished. It did, however, give Lurien an idea of what was wrong in his city.)

(After all, the anger had been at its peak within the Soul Sanctum.)

Lurien frowns, idly scanning the list of Missing Persons. Now that he knows what he's looking for, he's starting to see the pattern. He can't believe he missed it earlier. Slowly, the Soul Sanctum was becoming more and more upper class. Most of those gone came from the poorer sections of the Sanctum.

The Soul Master had sworn that he was searching for those missing. Lurien is now fairly certain he's a lying bastard. 

Unfortunately, he doesn't have a lick of proof. Gods dammit all.

He shuffles the list with a groan, skimming the names that he already knows by heart, and leans back in his chair. A headache is beginning to build between his eyes and he drops his head into his hands, willing it away. It doesn't work. He's had this headache for days now and it's slowly growing worse. 

(Sometimes, his dreams are filled with orange.)

Lurien doesn't know what to do.

His majesty would know, but Lurien refuses to bother Him for something as simple as this. Perfect, pale, and glowing, His light shines down upon them all. As much as Lurien would like to bask in it, to feel it press against him, he will not stand before Him a failure. Lurien must prove himself a capable leader of the city.

(And if he has a hidden storage of painted Wyrms, one of them he's even dared to label 'Beloved' in a shaky, half-drunk hand late one night, no one but the butterfly has to know.)

If he's being entirely honest, Lurien doesn't even know why his Foresight has been so silent. He desperately wishes it would tell him what to do, or even give a hint to the right path. Sitting here, helpless, and letting even more of his people disappear, and probably even die, doesn't sit well with him.

Rage kindles within the pit of his belly and Lurien slumps over, breathing slowly and steadily. First thing he has to do is investigate the Soul Sanctum. If the Soul Master really is behind these disappearances. . .

Lurien doesn't know what he'll do about it.

He has no idea what is going on inside of the Soul Sanctum, but ever since the infection started spreading, they've been behaving oddly. Becoming more secretive, refusing people entry for any reason at all, and taking in any and every scholar who is interest in learning.

(There has been talk about the City of Tears being sealed off in an attempt to contain the infection's spread. Lurien desperately hopes it won't come to that. No matter what happens, he is the Keeper of the Spire. If he has to die with his people, he will do it.)

But first, investigating the Sanctum.

A simple pulse of soul rings the bell near the door and it clicks open, Lucius poking his head inside. "You rang, my lord?" he asks, stepping fully inside with a bow.

Lurien waves a hand. "If I could get willowbark tea, that would be wonderful. And see if you can get me the guard captain. I need to talk to her."

"Of course," Lucius tells him, and slips out of the room. Lurien turns his gaze back down to the paperwork in front of him. He runs a finger down the list, making note of where each disappearance first occurred. Now that he's actually looking, with the knowledge that the Soul Master is most likely behind it, he can see that every case is within a certain distance of the Sanctum.

He is extremely annoyed that he didn't spot this before.

Footsteps thunder down the hall towards his office and Lurien glances up. The door is thrown open and the guard captain practically throws herself into the room. She's panting, almost completely in disarray, and looks very much like she's seen a ghost.

"Keeper!" she gasps, leaning on her lance in an attempt to stay standing.

Alarmed, Lurien gets to his feet, moving around the desk to see her better. His mask only allows his third eye to be seen, leading to the rumor that he only has one, and he peers carefully at her soul. Not even a smidgen of orange. "What? What's going on?"

She sways and Lurien grabs her, helping her slump into the nearby couch. "I can't believe it, Keeper, but I saw it with my own eyes!"

Now extremely alarmed, Lurien waves a returning Lucius to just give him the tea instead of setting it on his desk. He takes the cup and sips slowly. "What did you see?"

"The infection is dying," she tells him, staring straight into his third eye.

Lurien chokes on his tea and spits it out, coughing and hacking. The teacup slips from his hands and smashes upon impact, sending shards and liquid everywhere. Behind him, Lucius drops a tray. He doesn't so much as twitch when it clatters loudly against the ground, instead staring with his eyes wide and jaw on the floor.

Lurien coughs for a moment and then wheezes out, "Are you certain?"

The guard captain nods rapidly. "The veins have withered. Some of the lesser infected have even started recovering!"

"By the Gods," Lurien breathes. Briefly, he wonders if the Pale King had managed to win His fight. Yet, a clash between the Pale Wyrm and the Old Light would have certainly been felt across the entire kingdom. He should be investigating the Soul Sanctum, but this is far more important. "Send a guard to the palace. Ask His majesty for orders."

She's gone within a moment, buzzing rapidly out the door and Lurien stumbles backwards, slumping down the side of his desk onto the floor.

The infection. Gone.

He doesn't know how to feel.

Lurien closes his eyes and begins to hope. 


	9. Monomon the Teacher

There is a ghost in Fog Canyon.

There is a ghost of a memory in Fog Canyon.

Monomon the Teacher is not aware of this ghost, not yet.

Since the infection began, she's been busy digging through the archives, searching and searching and searching. For what, she's not quite sure. Answers to their prayers, or even something that would aid in His search for reprieve.

The infection hungers, slowly consuming more and more each day.

Monomon has yet to lose any of her archivists to its burning light, but she's certain that it's only a matter of time. They are, after all, aiding His majesty in trying to stop it.

She shuffles reports to the side, idly reading through them. Only a few hours ago had the first one come in, speaking of a 'ghost' within the Hallowed Lands. It had been passed around for a few quick laughs and then discarded. Then more had come in. From the Resting Grounds all the way to Greenpath, many had seen this ghost. Mask as pale as bone, chitin as black as void. Quiet like the ever yawning shadows.

Unnerving, to say the least. Monomon had immediately retrieved that discarded report and placed it with the others, smoothing out the crinkles on the paper. There's no rhyme or reason to the ghost's locations, just that they show up wherever and whenever they wish.

They're also apparently capable of disappearing into thin air.

Monomon would be concerned, except that no one had reported them as hostile. They're just there for a while, and then they aren't. Gone. A fitting name, for such a quiet being. As elusive as their namesake.

(For a while there, she considers the possibility of them being a child of His Majesty. The deep sadness that came over His face when she asked quickly answers that question.)

She strides through the Archives with a bunch of papers in her grasp, pausing when she spots Quirrel hunched over a table. He's reading through even more reports of the ghost. Tired, too, judging by his screwed up expression and the finger that's slowly tracing each line. He only reverts to that habit when he's having trouble focusing to correctly read.

He glances up at her when she's finally standing close enough to cast a shadow, then turns back to his reading. She pulls one of the tablets closer and reads through it. Another noble talking about the ghost. "Have you found anything useful?" she asks, because she certainly hasn't.

Quirrel shakes his head and sighs, shifting his mask so he can rub at his face. Monomon makes a note to remind him to take a break. He looks like he needs it. "Other than the reports being consistent up to a certain point? No."

Monomon glances down at the text and frowns, tracing it as she reads. "Mask as pale as bone, chitin as dark as void, quiet like the yawning shadows. Doesn't that remind you of something? Or, should I say, someone?" She already knows the answer to the question, but voices it anyway.

"His majesty said there was only one of them," Quirrel retorts. "And we know the Pure Vessel can't be small." He reaches across the table and grabs another tablet, reading through it quickly. "Here. As small as a child." He frowns, reaching up to tap his chin in thought. "It does mention horns like a vessel though. Do you think. . .?"

Another question she knows the answer to already. She shakes her head and drops her voice, leaning in to whisper the words. "His majesty admitted to me that most of His children with His wife were stillborn. He shut up immediately afterwards and I didn't have the heart to pry further." She sighs and gathers up the tablets. "You should take a break. His majesty will be by later to speak with me about something. He wouldn't tell me much in the letter but He seemed worried."

Monomon takes the tablets and papers with her back to her office, pouring over them carefully once again. There's no new information this time, but she picks out that there is only one form this ghost seems to like to take.

It appear to be like the vessels.

She wonders if it had ever met a vessel, and that's what it took inspiration for its shape from. Or is it actually a vessel, crawled out of the depths of the Abyss? Monomon is unsure of the answer, and finding it would be interesting.

The ghsto's small form is about the size of a hatchling. They barely come up halfway on most citizens, sometimes they're even smaller, just barely bigger than a hatchling. Two horns, two eyes, two arms, a gleaming white nail that's a miniature of the large one, and a cloak that's usually almost to the ground. This form is the more commonly seen one. The only exception is the City of Tears, which almost always sees the large ghost.

She frowns and taps the table, annoyed by the lack of information. If only there was more. Monomon doesn't really believe in such things as ghosts, but so many citizens have glimpsed, or even straight up interacted with, the ghost that she's forced to acknowledge their existence. 

Admittedly, though, those interactions haven't been much more than nobles scampering to get out of the way of the ghost as they travel. One had even complained of almost being run over by them. Monomon had considered laughing at that information, right up until the traveling noble had described them down to the bone mask they wear. 

That had been the first time they'd heard about form the ghost could take, along with their complete lack of social skills. Hmm, seems like someone else that she knows. 

Monomon is startled when the door to her office is almost kicked open. Her head snaps upwards. It's Quirrel, and he's leaning heavily against the wall, looking like he's just seen a--

Like he's just seen a ghost.


	10. Mantis Lords

There is no ghost in the Fungal Wastes. 

There is only Radiance and Her burning light. 

The Mantis Lords do their best to hold Her off, to keep their people safe. 

While the Mantis Tribe itself is immune to Her powers, through discipline and understanding that She lies, those that live in the same area as them aren't. Each day it grows harder. More and more of the creatures they hunt for food are infected, more and more injuries weep that alarming orange instead of yellow or green. 

They don't know if the infection can be transferred by wound, but they really don't want to find out. Those wounded are quickly healed. All soul collected goes immediately to the healing halls. 

(While the wounds of the body can be fixed, those of the mind are harder. The infection is of the mind.)

(The three sisters worry for their brother. Ever since the incident, he hasn't been the same.)

Keiza has always been rather vicious, even for a Mantis. He enjoyed battle, took glee in a fight. His sparring was sharp, fast paced, and heavy-handed, but he yielded whenever his opponent did. Not once has he struck a fellow Mantis that had been downed. Never did he raise his hand against an innocent, and the three sisters take relief in that. Keiza may be vicious, but he isn't cruel.

But the coming of the Elder has changed that. This much the sisters are certain of. Elder Hu had been the bug's name, and he'd come to purify the lands from the infection. Too late had the sisters realized that he himself was infected. He saw their tribe as nothing more than savage beasts, consumed by the endless orange glow. 

Too late had they seen his plans of purifying. Many of their tribe had fallen, including their brother's wife. They had heard his scream of rage that fateful day, when he'd come across the Elder standing over her slowly cooling corpse. There was hemolymph splattered across the Elder, and orange glowed bright within his gaze. 

Keiza lunges with a furious, grief-stricken war cry. The Elder teleports out before he can be touched, and his scythes wedge themselves deep into the blood-soaked ground. Keiza staggers, chokes a heaving sob, and collapses by the body of his wife. 

(Grief turns to rage. Rage turns to vengeance. His sisters are unable to stop him. Not even Keiza's daughter, Freya, cools his rage.)

After that, Keiza is almost possessed. He hunts obsessively, stalking through the Fungal Wastes in search of the disappearing Elder. Vengeance burns in his throat, anger and rage making him quick to snarl at anything in his path. 

Vatina, the eldest of the four, watches their brother go with sadness in her gaze. Her sister-in-law had really aided with Keiza's temper, a gentle coolness that he looked to for answers. And now she is dead, slaughtered brutally within the confines of their village. A village that was supposed to be safe. A village that no longer is. 

They hunt in the lands, their lances easily piercing through their prey. Vatina leans down to inspect the mushroom. Its clean of infection, eyes glassy but clear in death. She nods, tossing it to one of the others, and gets back to tracking. The Tribe needs food. It's becoming scarcer to find. One of these days, they're going to have to figure out how to purify the infected. If only to make them safe to eat. 

When the Elder shows up again, this time spotted on the nearby cliffs, they're ready. Keiza almost snarls with anticipation, flexing the blades on his arms. He's shaking with rage. Vatina doesn't blame him. She just wishes that it wasn't consuming him.

He doesn't spend time with his daughter anymore. Though that is less his fault, and more her spending time with that partner of hers. 

(Vatina frowns. Ze'mer. One of the Great Knights. An Outsider.)

Keiza lunges off of the top of the gates and after the Elder with a snarl, vanishing into the Fungal Wastes with a roar of challenge. Ahead of her furious, grieving brother, she can see the infected bug teleporting quickly to get out of the way. She curses and drops down, hefting her lance upwards so she can travel faster. Caria and Giosa quickly reach her side and the three dart after Keiza. 

He may be much larger than them, broader in the chest and taller, but his bulk doesn't slow him down at all. The three sisters race through the Fungal Wastes, leaping from ledge to ledge. They can hear Keiza in the distance, and the sound of his blades clashing against rocks every time he misses spurs them on. He's angry, so very angry, and they need to catch up to him. Hopefully before he does something he regrets when he finally comes out of his anger. 

The Elder has trapped himself within a cave, Keiza blocking the exit with his bulk. He's snarling, chest heaving from anger and the chase. The Elder's hand comes up and large, orange rings appear in the air. 

A spell, but a heavily infected one. Vatina resolves to not get hit by that. 

Keiza has no such cares. He takes the blow like it's nothing and slams into the Elder with all the force of an enraged husband. The hemolymph that seeps from the cuts is just as infected, a brilliant orange mixing with yellow and green. Vatina darts to the side and trips the elder, watching as her brother's gaze flickers towards her for a second. He rears up and swings his blades down, the ground tearing open as he barely misses. 

Damn that Elder's teleporting ability. 

Caria leaps forward, sliding underneath the blade Giosa launches, and slices at the Elder. They corral him forward, nudging him into position with their lances and quick attacks. The Elder's eyes have slowly become more and more orange over the course of the fight and Vatina knows they must dispose of him.

Keiza rears upwards and brings his blades down in a sweeping scythe that takes the Elder's head clean off. Orange hemolymph sprays out, coating everything in a thin film of orange. Keiza's roar of victory echoes in the room. For but a split second, his eyes are orange. It's gone a second later.

(They can see faint swirls of orange in his gaze, even long after the Elder has died.)


	11. The Traitor's Child

There is a ghost in the Fungal Wastes.

There is a ghost of a mother in the Fungal Wastes.

Freya misses her mother desperately.

It feels like it was just yesterday, what with the way her grief tears at her. Yet her mother has been dead and buried for over a month now. She thinks it's been that long, at least. Her sense of time has been unreliable. Some days she's present, others she's barely aware of life around her, much less what time it is.

The way her father has pulled away from her isn't helping very much either. He thinks she doesn't see the way he's grieving. The way he tries desperately to not look at her. To not see her.

Freya takes her looks from her mother, after all.

She finds herself spending more time away from the village, sneaking out under cover to meet up with Ze'mer. They don't usually talk during those moments, Freya just resting pressed up against her and trying not to cry. Ze'mer sings softly to her, a language that Freya cannot understand, gently petting her back as she sobs.

Freya misses her mother so much. She misses who her father used to be.

Her father used to laugh with her, gently teaching her how to wield her blades. He'd pick her up and spin her around when they were alone, and he'd often come to her when he was so angry he couldn't speak. When he was so upset he couldn't puzzle out his emotions, he'd settle down by her mother's side, Freya sitting across from them, and they'd walk him through it until he could understand.

(Her mother falling, having taken the blow the Elder meant for her. The feeling of her mother's hemolymph splattering across her face. Her father's bellowing scream of grief and rage.)

(Deep in the night, when the shadows are at their longest, Freya sneaks out to train with Ze'mer. She has to be stronger, has to be better, has to know the styles those outside of the Mantis Tribe learn. She cannot fail again. Cannot make her father go through the pain of losing his daughter, too.)

Then one day, there's a ghost in the village. It's silent, as quiet as a sleeping Shrumal Warrior, but she knows it's there. Every single instinct of hers is screaming that there's something in the corner, no matter the fact that she can't see anything.

Every time she looks, there's nothing there. But she knows there is. Every fiber of her being screams that there's a ghost in the corner.

Her aunts call a conference from where they're sitting on their seats and Freya looks away, turning to leap down into the room and stand by her father's own throne. He moves slowly these days, head turned just right so he doesn't have to look at her, and he slumps down onto his throne with a sigh.

(Freya pretends she doesn't see the occasional flicker of orange in his gaze. It's not a problem, it's not a problem, _it's not a problem_.)

More of her tribe mates hurry into the room, either flying in or skidding down the walls. They bow low to the ground and settle into place, neatly lining up so that all can hear the Mantis Lords speak.

One particular mantis makes her still. They're perfectly normal, just like the rest of her village, but their shadow is just the slightest bit off.

It ripples slowly and deeply, ebbing and flowing like water spilling into a puddle. There's a ghost in their shadow and it blinks eight eyes slowly, the white glow flashing just briefly before fading into a perfect shade of gray that matches the darkness surrounding. If she hadn't been paying attention in that specific moment, Freya doubts she would have noticed it at all.

They don't do anything, not even twitching, and it makes Freya nervous. Are they waiting for a weakness? Listening to the village's defenses and plans for better hunting? She crosses her arms nervously, feeling a little better at the reminder that she's armed and dangerous.

Her father lounges on his throne beside her, gaze firmly locked onto their people standing before them. She wonders if she should alert anyone to this intruder in the village.

Yet they're quiet for the time they're present. Gray eyes only a half-shade paler than the shadow they reside in blink slowly and lethargically. They flicker from each of her aunts to her father, then back again.

It's almost like the ghost is counting something.

What, they are counting, Freya has no idea. She wonders if she should be concerned about this.

The meeting drags on. Freya has no idea what her aunts and father are discussing, she's far too focused on keeping an eye on the ghost. It hasn't so much as twitched the entire time, just lounging in the darkness.

She blinks.

It's gone. 

The shadow it had been residing in is blank and empty once more. The faintest movement and ripples that had been ebbing and flowing are now still. Still and deep, as a shadow cast by a living being should be.

Panic builds in her throat and Freya's gaze sweeps across the ground, trying desperately to find it.

There, halfway through the room. It's using her tribe mate's shadows as a pathway, gliding through them with an ease that belies its strength. That sort of power, to take over a shadow long enough to ride within it, or even just pass through it; that sort of strength is terrifying.

Freya doesn't want to test herself against that sort of strength. She thinks that even her father, as brutal and vicious as he can be, would be hard pressed to win. Even her aunts, all three at once, wouldn't take this ghost down.

She watches the shadow slither up the wall and out of sight. The sensation of being watched goes with their disappearance and she can feel her hackles lower just slightly. Freya supposes she'll just have to speak to her aunts and father once the meeting is over. There's no reason to cause panic among their people.

Breathing in slowly, Freya opens her eyes and watches as her aunts dismiss the meeting. The Mantises slip from the room quickly and easily, leaping up the walls with a quiet grace. She turns to them and tries not to flinch at the way her father avoids looking her in the eyes.

Her aunts tilt their heads and stretch lazily. "Yes, dear niece?" Aunt Vatina asks, and Freya braces herself.

"I noticed something that you should probably be aware of. . ."

(There was a ghost in the Mantis Village.) 


	12. The Traitor Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone say thank you to Mirrimi on discord for motivating me to write this extra-long chapter.
> 
> ps: ur ghost icon is adorable and i love it with every fiber of my being.

There is a ghost in the Mantis Village. 

There are a lot of ghosts in the Mantis Village. 

It has been this way since the infected Elder came and slaughtered their people indiscriminately. Since he brought his infected spells and cut down all he saw, from elderly to warriors to children. Keiza does not regret cutting him down where he cowered. 

He still remembers seeing his wife fall, hemolymph spilling freely from her nearly bisected body. The blow that's meant for their daughter, aimed at her unguarded back, and Keiza isn't close enough to defend her. He's helpless, unable to do anything as his wife throws herself in the way without hesitation, only able to watch as she is cut down mercilessly.

Furious and grieving, he lunges for the bastard, scythe blades lashing out, only to miss as the Elder teleports away. Keiza stumbles to his wife's side and slumps over her still, so very cold form, sobbing brokenly. His sisters must have pulled him away at some point, him being too emotionally ruined to resist, but he doesn't recall much else.

He does remembers the hunt for the Elder though, searching almost fanatically for him. Keiza needs this desperately. Needs to feel the bastard's hemolymph on his claws, needs to see the naked fear in his orange gaze, needs to know that his wife's death has been avenged. Keiza stalks the Fungal Wastes with a furious purpose.

Nothing can stop him.

Not even his daughter.

(The daughter he can no longer look at because all he sees is his wife's broken corpse. She looks so much like her mother that it hurts. A burning ache that settles deep within his chest.)

(The daughter who keeps sneaking off to see that damned outsider, Ze'mer. Keiza hates her so much. Hates that his daughter is slipping out of the village, out into danger where he can't come to her aid. Hates that she will not see reason. It's been months, almost a year since his daughter confessed to dating the Great Knight, and not once as she come to challenge the Lords for the right. Ze'mer is spitting upon their tradition and Keiza hates her.)

(Until the Great Knight steps into their village, challenges, and beats the Mantis Lords, Keiza will never accept her as his daughter-in-law.)

The Elder appears at the village again, intent on slaughtering more of his people, but Keiza is faster. He launches over the gates, bringing his blades down with all the force one of his weight can, and slams into the rock with enough force it shatters. The Elder backs off, teleporting out of the way of a slash that should have taken off his head, and then retreats quickly. Keiza snarls and lunges after him. He cannot let him escape, cannot let him get away with this. 

When he finally corners the Elder in a cavern just above the bridge to the City of Tears, Keiza is almost rabid with rage. His vision has narrowed, tunneled onto the Elder who is teleporting frantically to stay away from his blades. Keiza is just small enough to squeeze into the room where the infected bug is hiding and he launches forward, intending to take off his head. 

In the end, it takes his sister's assistance, pinning the Elder in a way that he cannot escape, and Keiza decapitates him with a roar of victory. Orange floods his vision, hemolymph splashing across his broad frame, and he pants, the thrill of vengeance thick in every fiber of his being. Victory. At last. 

He notices his sisters watching him warily and Keiza can't stop the bitterness from rising. 

_Look at them_ , some deep part of him whispers. _They tried to stop you from achieving your vengeance._

That's not true. They aided him. His sisters wouldn't turn against him. 

_They would if they were infected. Infected never turn against each other._

Keiza shakes his head to remove the thoughts and snaps his blades through the air, removing most of the orange from them. "We should bury him. Take note and never forget." He turns to his sisters and tries to ignore the part of him that's whispering terrible things. "No more outsiders in the village."

He pretends to not notice the second glance they share, turning to stalk back towards the village. Fine. If they won't listen to him, then he'll just have to do it himself.

(His daughter is against him. His sisters are against him.)

It takes Keiza approximately two meetings to realize that his sisters think something is wrong with him. Anger rises in his chest, bitter and sour like grief, and he closes his eyes, lounging back in his throne. The little voice has steadily been getting louder each time he's been dismissed, or his words ignored. 

Keiza finds himself agreeing with it more and more often. 

The meeting ends and he only opens his eyes once the room is quiet. His daughter stands before them, nervously crossing her blades. Odd. She hasn't done that since she was a hatchling, barely big enough to wrap around Keiza's throat once. Freya's eyes meet his and Keiza swallows tightly and looks away. 

He listens as his sisters talk for a moment, then pauses when Freya cautiously interrupts. "Yes, dear niece?" Vatina asks.

Freya breathes in slowly. "I noticed something you should probably be aware of. There was a ghost in the meeting."

Keiza pauses and actually turns to look at his daughter. "A ghost?" he asks. Some part of him, the very deepest part, shrieks in a primal rage. It burns. He ignores it.

"I spotted them in one of the shadows. Eight eyes that glowed white for but a heartbeat." She frowns. "They left before the meeting was over, sliding up the wall like a shadow." Freya shudders slightly. "I could feel their gaze. Like they were judging my worth."

That vicious shriek raises higher and Keiza is struck by the sudden urge to hunt down the ghost and slaughter it brutally. He squishes the urge. His claws shake.

Keiza spends the rest of the day in a haze, stumbling slightly whenever he finds himself in places he doesn't remember walking to. He swallows tightly each time, telling himself that he's fine. When he finally retires for the night, he locks the door to his room, curling up in a nest that no longer smells like his wife and closes his eyes. 

He dreams of a great arena, with thousands of the same face watching over him. One resides upon a gilded throne. Keiza dislikes them on principle.

A white glow fills the room and Keiza scrunches up his face, peering out when the light is gone. A child stands across from him, a hatchling that barely comes up to Freya's knee, and he frowns. There's no way he can fight that. The little one reminds him far too much of his daughter when she was that small. Just barely big enough to fit in the palm of his hand.

The little one dashes forward, blade as white as Pure Ore heading straight towards him, and Keiza tries to roll backwards and away. His body moves forward, taking the hit, and slamming large blades down into the ground, barely missing the little one. The blades sweep upwards, sending parts of the arena floor flying every which way.

Keiza tries again, yanking backwards with a furious vengeance. 

Nothing.

He has no control over this body. 

The child leaps out of the way and Keiza's body roars, scythe blades slicing forward viciously. That deep, terrible part of him is so loud, screaming to kill, kill, _kill_ , the thing before it hurts Her. 

A sinking sensation fills Keiza to the brim. 

The blades he throws out are as orange as the Elder's gaze. 

His sisters were never infected; he is. That voice is not him, it's Radiance, the burning light.

Keiza renews his struggles, furiously lashing out against the orange that binds him in this dream. He will not stand idly by while his body murders a child. He pulls every trick he knows, only stopping when he's too exhausted to do much more than pant. Panic builds in his throat with every hit the child takes, only ebbing as they dart away to Focus and heal. He can feel every blow he takes, his own hemolymph just as infected and glowing orange. The sight of it makes him sick to his stomach. Keiza screams in furious, helpless rage, lashing out with all of his remaining strength and--

In the arena, his body stumbles. 

It's just enough for the little one to dart inwards and shove their nail hilt deep into Keiza's chest. Chitin cracks and shatters and he staggers, slumping to the ground. 

Keiza roars in victory.

Orange, furious and angry at his interference, swallows him whole. 

(He drowns in the anger, everything slowly fading to black as the air in his lungs dwindles away to nothing. The last thing he hears is Radiance screaming, high and primal and full of fury and rage. _Good_ , Keiza thinks viciously and then passes out.)


	13. The White Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White Lady's name is Camellia.

There is more than a ghost in the lands of Hallownest.

There is something like a god in the lands of Hallownest.

She can feel it through her roots when the void shifts and churns one fateful morning. When the inky darkness suddenly gains traction. When it goes from mindless and restless to active and alert. It shifts, turning its endless gaze towards her and Camellia draws back in alarm.

It knows she is watching.

It does nothing, turning away to focus elsewhere.

Her roots tell her that it's watching the Resting Grounds, power bubbling within its inky mass. It's waiting for something, poised, alert, and on the edge of action at any moment. She watches as its gaze shifts, moving slowly towards the Blue Lake and then deep into the Crossroads.

Realization dawns. The Void is watching something. What it is watching, she does not know.

She digs her roots in deeper, spreading her awareness wider in search. There's something making quick work through the Crossroads, a deep emptiness that is like the Void. Like, but not quite. It burns cold in her senses, something endlessly aching. But not hungry, like the Void deep within the Abyss. Just there, as cold as the ice that can occasionally be found in the gardens.

Its power burns within her senses. She cannot push her awareness further, not without alerting whatever this ghost is. But she tracks its presence as it pushes further into the Kingdom, passing into Greenpath.

There is no rhyme or reason to its path, she notes, frowning slightly. Beside her, her Wyrm still slumbers, his light dimmed as he sleeps. The White Lady closes her book and sets it aside, her roots watching as the shadow passes into Fog Canyon. It pauses there for a moment, making a pass right in front of the Archives, but then bolts, moving through the area at a greatly increased speed.

It seems oddly distressed.

Rather odd given that Camellia was under the impression Void couldn't _get_ distressed.

The ghost seems to crash into the Fungal Wastes and doesn't slow down for quite some time, though it does make a quick stop in the Mantis Village. It hovers within the area for a time, not moving more than a few feet, then suddenly vanishes from her sight completely.

Camellia starts upwards, stilling when her husband makes a noise of complaint, and then carefully gets out of the bed. Ambrosia slides into the warm spot she leaves behind, but she moves quickly to a large map on the wall. It depicts Hallownest in its entirety and she traces the path taken so far to its final point.

Mantis Village. The last place she had felt the ghost. Before it vanished.

She pushes her roots a little bit deeper and tries to find it, frowning at the lack of shadow. The Void in the Abyss had leapt higher when the ghost had vanished, but has since settled down into its new, churning froth.  
Ambrosia will definitely have to be informed of this.

But maybe later, when he's recovered from passing out in his workshop. Camellia glances at him, curled up so small in the massive bed, and sweeps from the room. She has a ghost to track, and possibly a hunt to set up.

As the Queen of Hallownest, it's her job to make sure her people are safe.

The ghost doesn't show up again until far later in the day, when she is giving a set of orders to the Pure Vessel while out in her gardens. It stands in front of her, arms crossed behind its back, perfectly obedient in every way. She hums and gestures for it to leave, watching as the Vessel spins on its heel and walks off. Each step is perfectly measured, perfectly precise.

As pure and hollow as the Pure Vessel should be.

Amusing, given that if it doesn't make sure, it trips immediately. It's unused to its new height from its final molt.

She feels the ghost come back into awareness, a shadow of Void in the City of Tears and turns her face upwards. Its presence is sharper this time, more compact, larger than just a shadow. Something with more form.

Its moving slowly through the City, almost like its exploring. For a while it's in a singular spot, right where she knows an elevator is, and then it moves off. Camellia tracks it carefully, cautiously. It's slipping through the shadows with ease.

Camellia presses in a little closer with her roots, attempting to get a better look. The ghost is within the Soul Sanctum now, she thinks, and its now definitely being more cautious. It moves quickly, slipping from room to room. She blinks when it pauses and moves in a little bit closer. Slowly and quietly, as if it is sneaking. For a moment, she is reminded of the way the Gendered Child plays Huntress, moving as if she is as deadly as her mother. 

Perhaps within a decade maybe, but definitely not now. 

Camellia huffs a laugh and turns her attention back to the shadow, peering closely. It's not moving.

(There's a whisper of power within the Soul Sanctum that revolts her to her core.)

Then--

Searing wrath, burning shadow, and an anger that goes beyond existence.

The White Lady rears back, swallowing a shriek of pain, and her roots recoil back into the soil. She discards the link and claws at her face in terror, collapsing to the ground.

It burns. The cold, furious anger that sears through her right to the core.

Deep in the Abyss, the Void roars its fury, splashing up against the walls and shuddering violently. The only thing stopping it from swallowing the entire Abyss is the Lighthouse currently lit, keeping the shadows from consuming all.

She presses her hands up against her face, feeling the tears that streak her cheeks, and breathes in a shaky sob. The pain is slowly ebbing, that burning hatred slipping away, and it takes her a moment to realize that the shadow is now deep within the Royal Waterways.

Whatever it had seen within the grounds of the Soul Sanctum should be investigated as soon as possible. If only because she's never experienced such core-deep hatred like that. Camellia does not know what could cause a reaction, but she knows it must be taken care of. Rot such as that does not belong within the Hallowed Kingdom.


	14. Godseeker

There is a ghost within Godhome.

There is a ghost of a trespasser within Godhome.

It comes in with barely more than a bang, a shadow that starts large and compresses into something far smaller. Godseeker can see it within her mind, barely more than a vile rat. The intruder kneels there for a moment, just breathing slowly, and she cannot ignore their existence any longer.

_Blasphemy! Rank blasphemy! Thou crawler! Thou cringer! Thou smallest of the small! By what right dost thou trespass here, in this home of the Gods? Shrivel away and begone! Begone!_ she projects, vicious and sharp. There is no need for a small rat within Godhome when there are bigger and better Gods to attune to.

The intruder does not listen to her, instead choosing to push to their feet and travel deeper into Godhome, pausing at the opening to the first pantheon. She frowns as the doors open, certain that they wouldn't have accepted such a crawler within their arena.

_Wretch! Thou hast ordained thine own destruction! Through sacred combat are We attuned to this Kingdom's greatest beings. By entering this gate thou hast challenged the very Gods of this Kingdom! Dost thou consider thyself the equal of this pantheon, of its masters? Draw thy weapon then, fool of fools, and be damned for thy arrogance!_

As the first arena forms around them, the intruder's gaze rests upon her on her throne. Despite the mask like bone, the eyes as blank and empty as the void in her soul, there is something more there. Something so much sharper and darker than she can understand, and her innards twist and writhe beneath her chitin.

No. The intruder is a crawler, a wretch, a meager worm that bows before greatness. She sniffs daintily, watching as the Vengefly King hovers ever lower. This will be over quite quickly. The intruder will be crushed by Hallownest's might, and the Gods that it holds within its boundaries.

Yet, they do not. The intruder triumphs again, and again, and again. They traverse farther and deeper into the pantheon, neatly sidestepping every obstacle thrown into their path. Godhome almost shakes from the force as they dispose of the Brooding Mawlek. The arena slowly turns white around them, but Godseeker can see as they turn to stare at her, idly flicking hemolymph off of their nail.

They step through into the final resting area, before the peak of the first pantheon, and stop in front of her. Their gaze, despite being as blank as the shadows, is sharp and focused. Godseeker finds herself almost recoiling, but steadies herself, hissing dangerously.

_Why hast thou crept into this pantheon, o meager one? The noise of thine wriggling creates much discord, drowning out the godly resonances we attune Ourselves to! Dost thou mean to thwart our sacred goal? Dost envy drive thou to such madness? We pray that the Gods of this Kingdom punish thee, obliterate thee, utterly destroy thee!_

The intruder stares up at her and tilts their mask. She gets the vague sensation they are laughing at her.

_Creep on, meager one, and may the Gods utterly destroy thee!_

Another movement of their shoulders and then they slide past her, vanishing through the door. She stays there a moment longer and then blinks, finding herself upon her throne in the arena. The ghost turns their head and stares, then looks over to the Nailmaster opposing them. She hopes he destroys them.

The Nailmaster falls. All three of them tumble and shatter to a might that shouldn't exist. The intruder steps into the second pantheon.

_Thou most ungrateful of blemishes! The Gods in their great mercy allow thee to escape their first pantheon alive, yet still thee think to test thineself against their might? Doom thyself then, that We may resume Our focus and ascend Our minds ever higher!_

There is a burning light within Godhome, a sun that she must attune herself to. The intruder laughs at her, with its shaking mask and quivering shoulders, and turns back to slaughtering all that oppose it.

(The sheer level of rage the intruder displays at the sight of the Soul Master unsettles her. They slaughter him, reveling in his death, and turn their face to her. Hemolymph coats them thoroughly and she cannot stop the shudder. Their howl of victory sends a cold chill through her chitin and she shudders again. Despite the small form, something _hungry_ lurks within them.)

Despite all that contained rage, they still seem to have some form of moral code. She's seen them bow to both the Nailmasters and the Mantis Lords. The fourth lord merely leans back on his throne, uninterested in this fight, but all three sisters leap to their feet. The intruder handles them neatly, without getting hit once.

She doesn't know how she feels about that.

They neatly dispose of everything in their path, destroying the God of Motherhood without hesitation. She watches as they flick their nail clean. The empty gaze burns with a coldness she does not understand. Just being within its view is unnerving enough. A meager worm, and yet she is wary of them.

In the resting spot just before the top, they once again stop in front of her. Godseeker turns her gaze to them, slowly, barely giving them any acknowledgement. They tug at the edge of her cloak.

_Ah, will the Gods not relieve Us of this troublesome speck? How it tests Us, seeing this worm raise its filthy weapon to the Gods! Thou hast luck beyond luck, o speck! The Gods of this pantheon, for purpose beyond Our understanding, allow you amongst them. Truly, the divine punishment they must be planning for you will be beyond all reckoning. Prepare thyself! Prepare thyself!_

(Despite all of her prayers, the master of the pantheon, the Great Sage, quickly falls to their blade. This howl of victory has something else, something so much more hungry, and she finds herself quaking within her seat.)

But she must attune herself and the rest of the Godseekers to Hallownest's Gods. She does not have the time for a worm that has more strength than it should. Godseeker turns her face to the clouds, tinted so lovely with orange, and feels the power within the Dream flow ever higher.

(There is an undercurrent of something else, but she doesn't know what.)

The intruder strides into the third pantheon like they own the place.

_Lowly brute! Blindest of worms! Again thee challenge the Gods? What divine whim has granted thee the strength to endure their presence, where no others may stand? Fight then, struggle then, and keenly shall We listen for thy destruction!_

Ogrim and Isma, two of the Great Knights, barely even hold a candle to the intruder. They fall to their blade like toys, vanishing into the shadows and darkness, and Godseeker finds herself staring down something more.

Something bigger. She can only see a single pair of eyes but they're enormous compared to her. The shadow moves forward, bearing teeth longer than she is tall, and Godseeker quakes in her spot.

This is no meager worm, no creeping crawler moving across the floor on its belly.

It expands four arms, each one capable of crushing her within its grasp, and then she finds herself sitting once again upon the throne, watching as the intruder decimates the fourth pantheon with ease. Fear builds thick in her throat, and something akin to terror makes her shudder.

Soul Tyrant makes the intruder _rage_ , Their presence grows and swells, something primal rising to the surface, and they lunge forward, nail swinging. Eyes appear within their shadow, blinking slowly and lazily and then are gone. Godseeker finds herself almost cowering against her throne.

They stalk up to her in the resting area and she moves out of the way before she can stop herself, not breathing a sigh of relief until they are gone.

The dream practically quakes when they complete the fourth pantheon, howling their victory to the skies. Godseeker flinches back, feeling the undertones within that echoing voice. It's more, deeper, hungry.

When the Pure Vessel appears on the field, she finds herself watching the intruder carefully. There is a staunch hunger within them now and she can only hope that she will survive this.

If she hopes to make it through this Ascension, she must attune and pray. 


	15. Tiso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im retconning this motherfucker in because i love him okay

There is more than just a ghost of a nightmare in the Wastes.

There is an ant, lost far beyond reason.

Tiso hates this place. He hates it so much he doesn't think he could possibly hate it more. There's nothing but dust, and the endless sensation that he's missing something. His chitin itches like there's something crawling beneath it.

In the distance, he can see a caravan traveling quickly. He considers checking it out, but the rich crimson flame that curls around the wheels convinces him otherwise. Tiso knows better than to mess with such things.

(One of his sister's deaths was more than enough to convince him of that. The way her chitin had been split and torn in a way that wasn't a nail. It looked like she had been torn apart from the inside out.)

He searches for a challenge, but out here in the wastes there are none to be found. There is only endless dust and rocks and the eternally howling gale.

Tiso feels like he's forgetting something.

Leaping onto a rock, he peers into the wind, pulling his hood down a little further to keep his eyes clear. The caravan is long gone, flames flickering in its wake. He remembers seeing Essence curling around its shape, fading into the light of the dust. Tiso knows better than to mess with anything that involves essence.

(As a child, he'd been obsessed with Gods. The Sun Goddess and the Nightmare King, and now the King of Knowledge and his wife, the Queen of Life.)

(Now that he's grown and fully capable of traveling on his own, Tiso knows better than to fuck with any of them. That just invites disaster.)

He leaps off of the rock and continues trudging forward, ducking his head a little to better buffer the wind. Hallownest should be around here somewhere. The arena located at the edge of the kingdom is his goal. A challenge the likes a warrior like him would thrive in. His shield is a comforting weight against his back and he reaches to brush a hand against its edge.

Along the edges of the shield he can feel where it separates into a sharp whip. A vicious trap for anyone who underestimates him because he wields a shield. The wind becomes particularly strong and he ducks his head further, closing his eyes against the swirling dust. This shield was a gift, a memory from a corpse of someone he cared for.

Tiso keeps it close to him and it has served him well for a long time.

He hopes it will continue to serve him well within the coliseum. Assuming he can get there, of course. These Wastes seem quite determined to slaughter him brutally.

A deep red glow spills across the Wastelands as he rounds a massive boulder and Tiso screeches to a halt at the sight of the caravan. Dream essence is spilling off of the wagons, fading into the air. Tiso carefully edges around the wagons, making sure that none of the strange bugs guarding it see him.

Their masks unnerve him, as does the brilliant red flame that glows within the depths of the campfire he can see. Tiso knows not to go anywhere near them, that doing so is asking for something that he isn't willing to give.

(He recognizes the masks on a deeper, more instinctive level. Something within him tells him not to get closer. That he'd lose a valuable part of himself if he did.)

As he skirts the edge of the caravan, taking great care to remain out of sight, he catches a glimpse of a tall bug flinging the curtains of their wagon open. The others in the troupe immediately defer to them, one even calling out new orders to the riders. Tiso ducks down and edges carefully behind a rock. The tall, caped bug has horns that glint red in the fire and two lines down his mask. They seem to be lamenting something, sipping idly from a bowl that they fill with what seems to be soup.

Tiso's stomach reminds him of its presence. He shushes it automatically, suddenly deeply paranoid that the troupe has heard, and scurries back a couple rocks. The last thing he wants is to be found by that bug.

Dried meats are an terrible substitute to that delicious smelling soup the troupe has going, but Tiso ignores it. He make quick work of them and gets to his feet, pushing onwards. The coliseum awaits him and his triumph.

(He ignores that something else is calling him to the kingdom. Something more than just the thrill of the fight. There's a tug in his core, the way his chitin itches just right the closer he gets to Hallownest, the way he feels like a part of himself is coming alive.)

The wind pushes higher and he braces himself against it, pushing through what feels like a solid column of wind. It howls in his ears and Tiso stumbles, forcing his way through. He trips instantly, landing with a thud and a painful rock digging into his abdomen, but he makes it.

Around him the wind has died down a little. The cliffs are oddly shaped, making the wind almost scream as they pass through all the openings and gaps. Tiso gets to his feet and brushes himself off, making sure that his hood is in place. This must be the Howling Cliffs he had been told of before he left.

The ones that are incredibly annoying to traverse. Tiso stares up them and groans. He's going to have to get climbing if he wants to make it to the top, seeing as that's the direct path into the Kingdom. Stalking forward to the first platform he shakes out his wings, buzzing them into flight.

Its been a long time since he's last used them, but that doesn't make Tiso incapable. Just rusty. He launches himself from platform to platform, barely slowing down to turn around. It's invigorating, being able to fly like this.

(He's the last of his siblings to still be able to, seeing as he's still single and not looking to settle down. The other's lost their wings long ago. It's both a point of pride and a sore spot for him.)

Tiso lands easily at the top and begins making his way over the tops of the Howling Cliffs, heading towards where he can see streetlamps in the distance. There, at the base of the cliffs is the quaint, quiet, terribly boring town of Dirtmouth. Beyond that, though, is his triumph.

In the coliseum, he will succeed. 


	16. Radiance

There is a ghost within Her lands.

There is a ghost of the Wyrm within Her lands.

She can feel it. Feel its power as it stalks through Her kingdom. As it passes by the betrayers home, those She has burned with Her light. They will pay for abandoning Her.

(It does not matter that some remain faithful to Her memory. The Wyrm is a thief and will take them from Her soon enough. She will just have to strike them down before that happens. Make sure that what is Hers remains Hers.)

Radiance had given them light, brought them into existence from Essence They had worshiped Her in return, content to bask within Her glowing light. For a time, they were Hers.

Then they abandon Her to that damn Wyrm. They forsook Her light that spawned them, turned their backs, and forgot Her. Hallownest had been born from that betrayal. But She is eternal, everlasting. Memories of Her power still existed, hushed whispers of faith. It spreads until all of Hallownest begins to dream of Her forgotten light.

She gleefully takes the thieving Wyrm's people from him, dragging them into a deep slumber and breaking their minds. Returning them to under Her power, mindless drones that eternally serve Her will. She finds it amusing, entertaining to send the husks against the Wyrm. To force him to kill what used to be his.

Even residing within the Dream Realm as She is, She still can feel the faint power of the Wyrm crawling through the lands. It's not him, for his light is impossible to mistake, but something else. Smaller. A little hatchling, born of Root and Wyrm. They're tiny, compared to the so called Pure Vessel who resides within the White Palace.

(She laughs at that plan, knowing that the Vessel dreams of being perfect for its father. It's as impure as one can get.)

Radiance stops laughing quickly when She feels the hatchling enter Godhome, strutting forward like it owns the place. She snarls and brushes against Godseeker's mind, pushing her contempt for the Wyrmling onto her. Useless in every way, but She does like it when lesser beings bow and scrape to Her will.

Attunement. How laughable. She does not attune to them because they are worthless to Her desires. Nothing more, nothing less.

She turns Her gaze away from the Godseekers, almost laughing at the way they scramble over each other to bend to Her will. Her contempt for the Wrymling spills over them and they turn their faces away from it, spurning it. She can hear their words echoing, projected through the hivemind that is Godhome, and laughs from Her position at the top of the final pantheon.

There is no possible way for that annoyance of a Wyrmling to make its way up to her.

The Wyrmling steps into the first pantheon, nail drawn, and She settles down to watch, just waiting for its untimely death. Such an event will bring Her much joy. She can hear the Godseekers snarling at the Wyrmling, and pulses the dream around Her. It shivers and the arena forms into view. She leans down and bears Her teeth.

What an excellent death this shall be.

Perhaps if She is feeling vindictive enough, She'll descend through the clouds to dangle the Wyrmling's body in front of its sire. His despair will be delightful. 

Except the damn thing doesn't die. It tears through the first pantheon, slaughtering all that is in its way. Each win makes it flick its nail, occasionally turning to stare Godseeker in her eyes. Radiance snarls viciously.

How dare that Wyrmling consider itself good enough to challenge Her light.

Her rage only grows when the moth, one of the few remaining that are loyal to Her, forfeits his fight. He has betrayed Her for the Wyrm, just as She knew he and his mother eventually would. Unsurprising, all the same. Despite them being born from Her light, they wouldn't know loyalty even if they looked it in the face.

She swallows him whole in Her dream and makes sure that his wounds carry over to the waking world. A warning and a threat all in one. If he dies, it is of no consequence to Her. She does not care for those who would betray Her light. 

The Wyrmling makes its way higher in the pantheons, clearing out the second, then the third, and then the fourth.

Godseeker has become wary of it, even starting to tremble in her seat at the sight of the Wyrmling coated in hemolymph. Radiance snarls, Her light glowing so bright it burns those around Her.

_Crush it! Destroy it! Do not let it harm Us!_

Still, the damnable thing crawls higher. Its blank mask tilts upwards with every wave of Her power. It knows She is there, knows exactly what it is doing as it climbs ever closer. Void pulses within it and She can sense its mind. Firm, solid, and full of wrathful fury. It hungers for Her light. She will not let it have its desire. 

The arena pulses around Her. Godhome is not just pulling from Her, but something else as well. A glimpse of the future, perhaps? Does this Wyrmling have the same damn foresight as its sire?

She may have the fourth Mantis Lord just barely under Her power currently, but it's nothing like this. Nothing like the one that appears in the arena before them. His eyes are orange completely and he lunges forward without hesitation, blades crashing down upon the Wyrmling.

But there is something else there. While the body of the Mantis Lord may be under Her control, his mind is not. He's struggling against her, attempting to move in other directions. _Kill it_ , She whispers into his mind, nudging him forward.

An image flickers upwards for but a second. A small mantis, freshly hatched, and all of the fierce love a new father can have. The Wyrmling overlaps the newborn child for a moment and horrified revulsion sweeps through the Mantis Lord. He screams in fury and yanks at Her control with everything he has.

Caught off guard, Her power slips just slightly.

The Traitor Lord stumbles.

The Wyrmling wastes no time and lunges forward, running him through with its nail. Infuriated by his actions, She drags him deep into the dream and forces every single one of his wounds to carry through to the waking realm. A punishment for his betrayal.

Radiance turns back to the arena, and finds herself screaming in fury when the Pure Vessel yields to the Wrymling. Apparently, forcing it to fight its own sibling hadn't been enough. She burns Her light brilliantly and drags it into its final arena. She will just have to kill the Wyrmling Herself.

_Oh, ancient enemy, dawn will break and the light will not be consumed._


	17. The Pure Vessel

There is a vessel in the White Palace.

There is a Pure Vessel within the White Palace.

This vessel no longer has a purpose; it has no duty, no reason to exist. Its father has dismissed it, told it to go speak to its mother, and it knows that it is unwanted. Unneeded. Undesired. It glances behind it as it walks towards the gardens, its gaze meeting its fathers, and it flinches and hurries a little quicker down the hall.

Its sire is staring at it, watching it go with an intense gaze. He knows. Knows that it is perfect, knows that it is pure, knows that it is--

Lying.

The Pure Vessel ducks its head and hurries down the hall, trying to swallow down the way its void and curls within its chitin. It is a liar, and its lies have been exposed. Revealed. Brought forth into the light.

With Radiance gone, it no longer has a purpose.

It fears that it will be replaced now that it is no longer useful.

Mother stands in the gardens when it arrives, talking quickly to the retainers. They scurry around quickly, frantically talking in hushed voices, and go silent when it stops in front of her, arms clasping behind its back. She smiles at it, hands clasping in front of her, and tilts her face to the side. It stands still, not even daring to follow her gaze.

Its mind whirls.

What will happen to it, now that the reason for its existence is no more?

Its mother is talking now, her gaze soft and distant. It has missed most of it, and it snaps to attention. She tilts her head at it and then kneels down to gently prune one of the flowers in the beds. It has no idea what she has said.

Imperfect, impure.

"And where is your father?" its mother asks, tilting her head so she can look it in the eyes. There's a quirk in her shoulders that says she already knows the answer but is asking anyway. 

Pure doesn't move. " _In his workshop_ ," it answers, hands flicking quickly through the signs.

Its mother pauses in her actions, then sighs heavily. "Oh? Did he say why?"

" _No_ ," Pure returns, and goes back to standing at attention, arms once again behind its back. Its mother huffs a laugh and returns to tending the plants. Pure watches silently as she gently digs a hole in the dirt and mounds it with the ease of practice. She picks a yellow flower, bright and full of glittering gold, and removes it from its pot so she can place it in the ground. The roots are covered and she picks up a watering can to dampen the earth.

Pure glances at the trees shading its mother and silently starts counting the branches. The wind blows and messes up its count. Pure starts again.

It will not move without an order. It is perfect, pure, not needed anymore. It is a liar, full of selfish desires.

Its mother tends the garden for several hours. It watches her as she caresses each plant gently, taking great care to plant and water them properly. There is dirt on her hands and a soft smile on her face that the mask she wears can't quite cover. Despite it being messy work, she clearly enjoys it. Sometimes Pure can hear her singing softly. 

(The song is an echoing tune, drifting up and down in a way that feels like sorrowful melancholy. Like a garden no longer tended and overrun by thorns. Empty, but for the creatures who prowl its depths.)

(It reminds it of something, but it can't quite place a finger on it. A echoing dream of an arena and a ghost.)

Pure doesn't move, standing there the whole time. A gleaming light appears in their presence, quickly heading their way, and Pure's mask shifts just slightly, just barely enough so it can see in that direction.

Not that it needs to, of course. The Pale King's light is incredibly hard to miss.

Father strides out into the garden, looking rather ruffled. He brushes his hands against his sides, wings fluffed beneath his robes. Clearly agitated about something. Pure doesn't know what. Their father strides forward and stops by mother, leaning down to talk to her in a quick, hushed tone. He glances towards it for a moment, pausing in his words, and then returns to the conversation.

She sighs, leaning over to pick up a cloth to clean her hands with. "Do what you think is right, my Wyrm," mother says softly. The Pale King closes his eyes like he's pained, then stands up and turns slowly to face it. For a long moment, father is silent, like he's judging the options he has.

"Pure," he says. "Follow me."

It has been given an order. It follows obediently.

Father leads it down a hall and Pure follows silently. Inside, its void twists nervously. What could father want, it wonders. Nothing good, probably. Father's back is the kind of stiffly straight that Pure knows hurts after a while. It ponders that for a moment, then pushes it away. It shouldn't dwell upon such things. To dwell upon something is a mortal, bug-like thing to do. It is neither of those. It is void, endless and ethereal, created by its father in an attempt to save them all through its sacrifice. 

Born of Root and Wyrm, filled to the core with Void. 

No mind to think, no will to break, no voice to cry suffering.

(No cost too great.)

A door opens to the side and father steps inside, idly turning to stand by the window. Pure moves to stand at attention, clasping its hands behind its back. Stiff, still, waiting for its orders. Father sighs and shifts his mask enough to rub at his face. "I don't know how to say this," he finally begins.

Pure doesn't move.

"Effective immediately, I am removing you from the Knights."

It stills, even the void within its shell stops twisting. Of course. It knew this would happen eventually. 

It is being replaced.


	18. The Pale King

There is a ghost in the White Palace.

There is a ghost of a king in the White Palace.

This king strides into his workshop and carefully closes the door before sliding down it and collapsing to the ground. He buries his face into all four of his hands and attempts to steady his hopper-quick heart. His breathing is quick and unsteady and all he can hear is the echoing of the bodies crashing into the Abyss.

Ambrosia has a child. A fully grown child that he has no idea how to parent.

A child that he's treated like an object for years.

He sucks air in and out, mind whirling. Gods blood, but he's done and massively fucked this up. Fuck, he doesn't even know where to begin fixing this.

Ambrosia drops his head back against the door, feeling his crown hit it with an echoing thud. He pushes his mask up and rubs at his face, trying to think of a plan.

Camellia. He needs to speak with Camellia. She's always been so much better than him with this sort of thing. Especially when it comes to the general emotions of mortals. Ambrosia, despite looking like a bug, is very much a Wyrm at heart. His matters are knowledge, the mind, and being incredibly territorial.

The Pale King slowly gets to his feet and steadies his breathing. His hands are shaking almost violently and he balls them into fists, forcefully stilling them. He has to do this.

His child has been considering themself an object for far too long.

He breathes in slowly and pulls himself to his full height, scowling at how small he actually is. One of the biggest Wyrms when in that form and he misjudges the height of bugs so much that he undershoots. The Pale King, ruler of all of Hallownest, is the shortest of bugs by quite a large margin.

Ambrosia yanks open the door and braces himself. He throws out his magic and focuses on his wife's location, smiling faintly when he spots her out in her gardens. There's another presence beside her, standing stiff and tight and formal, and Ambrosia closes his eyes.

Pure.

Shit.

This is going to be far harder and more complicated than Ambrosia ever wanted this to be. But with Radiance gone, by who he still does not know, he can fix this. He can give his wife the child she has always desired.

He can be a good father, the way his parents weren't.

(Once, when Ambrosia had been a child, he had sworn to be a better parent than his ever were. What a lie that had turned out to be.)

It takes a few quick deep breathes for him to steady himself and Ambrosia sweeps into the gardens, using his two usually seen arms to brush off his robes. He can feel his wings bristling beneath the fabric and he stalks forward quickly to his wife's side.

Camellia glances up at him slowly and he bends so that their child cannot hear them speak. "How the hell am I supposed to parent an emotionally crippled child?"

"About the same as any other child, I'd reckon," she responds, pushing dirt over the roots of the flower with her hands.

Ambrosia groans faintly. "I have no idea where to begin."

"At the beginning."

He huffs at her, but its more of amusement than exasperation. "Amusing. But how do I even go about doing this?"

Camellia hums and lazily digs another hole, idly sifting the rich soil with her fingers. "They are our child, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps we should encourage them into doing other things. Finding hobbies other than standing as still as statues." She tilts her head sideways and sighs softly, reaching to grab a cloth to clean off her fingers. "Do what you think is right, my Wyrm."

Ambrosia closes his eyes, pained, and slowly turns to face their child.

They haven't moved an inch since he'd arrived, standing there still and motionless, hands clasped behind their back. He considers requesting them to follow but knows, deep inside, that his child has long since been conditioned to only follow orders. Dammit. What a fucking fool he is.

"Pure," he finally says, bracing himself for what is to come, "follow me." Ambrosia only pauses slightly at the doorway, watching as his only child follows his words exactly. Something bitter grasps at his heart and squeezes it. Bile rises in his throat and Ambrosia swallows tightly. He has done this. This is his fault. What a terrible father he is, in the end. 

Ambrosia strides down the hallway, back locked into a position he knows he'll regret later. But if he bends now, even the slightest, he knows he'll yield and not fix anything. He has to start repairing this before it gets any worse.

They halt in a side room and he strides across the room, hearing the door close behind his child as they enter. He pauses by the window and stares out of it for a long moment, then sighs and shifts his mask to rub at his face. "I don't know how to say this, but. . ."

For a long moment there is nothing but the sound of his own breathing.

"Effective immediately, I am removing you from the Knights."

He turns just in time to see the impact of his words, the way his child goes so still he could mistake them for a statue. For the first time, he sees emotion. Pure stunned shock, mixed with fear and horror.

They're shaking now, and black is welling up at the edges of their mask. It takes Ambrosia a long moment to realize those are tears. His child is crying. He has made them cry.

Guilt curls heavily within him.

It takes exactly thirteen steps for him to cross the room and he reaches up, pulling his child down to press their mask against his throat. They don't fight him, and as soon as their mask touches fabric, it's as if a dam has broken.

Heavy sobs shake his child's shoulders and clawed hands reach up to clutch at his robes. Ambrosia wraps an arm around his child's waist and rubs soothingly at their back.

(There's a clicking noise. It takes him far too long to realize he's making it. The sound of soothing that parental Wyrms would use for upset hatchlings.)

"I'm not removing you permanently," he says softly. "Just for now. You can still join them for expeditions and sparring and things like that, but I don't want it to be the only thing you do all day." Ambrosia gently pulls back and presses their foreheads together. "You are so much more than just a vessel. You are our child, and it's about damn time I start acknowledging that."

They make a hiccupping noise, void still seeping down their mask, but the flow is slowly halting. " _Really_?" they sign, hands shaking.

Ambrosia glances down at the motions and then nods firmly. "Yes. And the first thing we can do is easy enough."

"You need a name."


	19. Grimm

The nightmare in the Waste Lands is gone. 

This nightmare is now in Dirtmouth. 

They make the locals nervous. Grimm thinks it's adorable. The way they move, avoiding the tents that the troupe has set up with the air of people who are trying to hide their fear. He thrives on this sort of thing. This dance. Dangerous and full to the brim of both death and drama. 

He is, after all, the Nightmare King; God of the Eternal Flame. 

Grimm flings open the curtains to his tent and strides forward, a toothy grin on his face, and saunters by Brumm. Despite knowing that nothing will have gone missing during their trip to Hallownest, he still wants to check. 

The box containing the charm is right where he left it, neatly stuffed into his trunks, and Grimm pulls it out. He runs his hand across the top of it, humming at the feel of smooth, polished shellwood. Dream Essence locks it, keeping the charm safe, and Grimm bites his thumb until the chitin cracks and his hemolymph oozes out. He smears it across the lock and feels the magic part, unlocking. 

He opens the lid, fingers reaching into the silk wrapped interior, and pauses. 

Hesitates. 

Then panics. 

"Brumm?"

Brumm steps into the room, his accordion no longer being played. "Mmm? You called for me, master?"

Grimm searches the box for another moment, then snaps it shut. "Did you remove the charm and not tell me?"

Confusion sweeps across his second's face. "Of course not, Master. I can't even open the box, remember?" Brumm frowns, removing his hands from his instrument. "It was placed there after the last ritual, yes?"

"Yes, it was," Grimm hisses. The ruff around his throat is fluffed up, bristling violently with every action he makes. As much as he hates to admit it, panic is thick in his throat. The Grimmchild charm is vital in his rebirth. He needs that. 

Somewhere between the last kingdom and this, it vanished into nothing. No sign of where it has gone, no sign of who has taken it. When Grimm finds out who is responsible, he's going to drag them into the Nightmare Realm and then brutally murder them. Repeatedly. Perhaps he'll even test out various methods of evisceration just for fun.

He grinds his teeth together and flexes his fingers, hearing the wood of the box creak dangerously. Brumm reaches over and takes it from him, gingerly closing it and setting it aside. "Perhaps, Master, we should, mmm, figure out who took it?" 

Grimm breathes in and then shakes his head. "No. My sister first. If I have to, I can make another charm." He clenches his fists and then shakes them out, flashes of red magic healing the tiny wounds in his flesh. "It's not every day I get to spit on her grave." A cackle escapes him and he flares the fire in his gaze higher. Brumm doesn't flinch. "After all, the last time I saw that bitch, she tried to murder me. Not that I didn't fight back, of course, but my sentiment still stands."

"Of course, Master," Brumm agrees, moving to leave the tent. "I shall let Divine know."

Grimm waves him off and turns to frown at the box again. He's left gashes in the wood that will have to be removed. Divine will do the work, most likely, but he's going to have to endure her bitching first. Grimm sighs and rubs at his face, then tucks it beneath his arm and strides out through the flaps. 

Divine's tent is on the left side of the troupe's setup and Grimm strides in without hesitation. She blinks up at him and then scowls the second she sees the box in his arms. He chucks it at her and bails, not willing to listen to the lecture. Grimm has better things to do, like spit on his sister's grave the second he finds it. 

Or, even better, he can go bother the Wyrm for a little bit. The small god is so very pretty when Grimm has riled him up so much that he can't hide his temper any longer. When he's all fluffed up, spitting and bristling, threatening to stab Grimm. When his robes have flared open in a furious snap of fabric and Soul. 

Grimm probably has a death wish. That, or he likes it when his partners are as dangerous as he is.

He cackles softly as he sweeps through the Crossroads, wings splaying open when he leaps off a ledge. 

It's a long walk to the palace, but a quick flight. Grimm spends the time considering how he's going to rile the Wyrm up. Preferably in a way that makes him spit anger, but not actually move to attack. Despite the king of Hallownest being so small, he can pack a vicious punch. Grimm may be a god himself, but even he stalls at the idea of fighting the Wyrm at full power. 

That would be far less fun, far less of a dance, and more like running for his life. 

A lot more like his relationship, or lack thereof, with his sister. 

Grimm is incredibly thankful that she's dead, though he does wish that he'd been able to do the deed himself. 

He wings easily into the White Palace's grounds and lands with a graceful bow, cheerfully ignoring the way the nobles and servants in the area scream in fear. The White Lady is kneeling by a bed of flowers and Grimm glances at her, then pauses.

Blinks.

Stares for a long moment. 

The Pure Vessel stares right back at him from where it kneels beside its mother. It's elbow deep in a dirt hole, and there's a spray of earth as a rather large root is yanked out. "Good job, Hallow," the White Lady says softly, smiling at it. "You catch on very quickly." 

Grimm stares for a long moment, then remembers his manners and sketches a loose bow. "Greetings to you, White Lady. Pure Vessel." 

" _No_ ," the vessel signs. " _I am Hallow_." It spells out its name, then pauses for a moment and glances at its mother. 

The White Lady nods encouragingly. 

" _They/Them_ ," Hallow adds. A firm expression settles over their shoulders. " _I am alive_."

Suddenly Grimm understands why the nobles were whispering about the Wyrm panicking about being a parent. He's definitely going to have to laugh at him. 


	20. The White Lady

There is a nightmare in the White Palace.

The nightmare is mocking her husband.

(Or is it teasing?)

Camellia neatly flicks her fingers, and huffs a laugh when her child copies her, watching with wide eyes as dirt splatters across the skirt of her white dress. They sign apologies rapidly, but she waves it off.

"Peace, my child," she tells them, and then slaps her muddy hand right onto her skirt. It leaves a print behind and she giggles, listening to her child's horrified gasp. Admittedly, it's more of a sharp inhale than a gasp, but the way their shoulders pull back tells her all she needs to know.

Grimm has vanished by this point, probably heading in to go harass her husband.

Or is it flirt?

Either way, she finds it incredibly entertaining. Her husband's small stature does not help at all. He's like a tiny, snarling Hiveling, right up until the point he decides he's had enough and breaks out the Soul Pillars. Then he's a Hive Guardian, capable of dealing terrifying amounts of damage.

A very loud snarl echoes out of the halls behind them and she gently reaches over to where Hallow has gotten halfway to their feet. "Don't worry," she tells them, idly, grabbing another potted flower in a pretty shade of pink. "Your father is fine. Grimm is just harassing him."

Hallow looks alarmed and it takes Camellia a moment to realize that most people wouldn't consider that a good thing. "Oh, don't you worry too much. If he so wished, my dear Wyrm is fully capable of chasing out an annoying Nightmare King. Your father is tolerating him for reasons that he doesn't quite know himself."

Camellia laughs when Hallow tilts their head inquiringly but doesn't explain. She can't help the smirk that crosses her face beneath her mask when the sound of Ambrosia's yelling reaches them again. Apparently she is the only one who has realized what is going on. Not even her husband seems to be aware of this.

It's deeply entertaining to her. Far better than any of the plays the nobles in the City of Tears have put on.

She wonders when Ambrosia will finally catch onto what's happening. Probably not anytime soon if she's being entirely honest. Even when they had been courting all those centuries ago, he'd been terrible at realizing his own feelings. She'd practically had to explain to him what the feeling of love was.

(He'd been mightily embarrassed about that. She still occasionally teases him even to this day.)

Hallow hands her another potted plant to be put into the ground and Camellia hums softly as she examines it. The petals are a pretty shade of glimmering white with thin streaks of purple and red edging the ends. She removes the pot and starts breaking open the root ball, humming as she works. Both her and Hallow had been in the garden for hours now, just planting all of the plants that they wanted her to. It had been Hallow's choice this morning.

(Despite being able to make choices now, they still hesitate before doing so. Like they think they'll be punished for making it. It breaks her heart to know that she has done this to her child.)

Camellia gently slides the roots into the hole and starts pushing dirt into place. "Do you want to take a break after this one?" she asks. Hallow pauses, hand hovering over a flower with petals in a particularly stunning shade of blue. Almost akin to the color of lifeblood.

They nod, slowly, and then shyly shift their cloak so she can see their hands. " _Can we have snacks_?" they sign, and Camellia laughs, reaching to grab a cloth to wipe her hands off.

"Of course. Do you want any in particular?"

" _Can we have the lifeblood thins_?"

It takes her a moment to sort through her memory but she eventually recalls the teal colored crackers. A staple of the Mantis Tribe, they're sweet and salty and absolutely delicious with tea. They're Hallow's favorite snack by far. Given half a chance, and enough time, her child will happy stuff themself full of the crackers.

She's caught them dead to rights with an empty box and cracker crumbs across their mask.

Camellia gets to her feet and brushes off her skirt, smothering a giggle at the sight of the muddy handprints across the fabric. Even Hallow's cloak has mud along the fringe. She laughs at the sight of them frantically trying to remove it and reaches over to press a hand against their shoulder. "We'll get that all cleaned up," she says, turning to survey their work.

The last few beds are now stuffed to the brim with new flowers and bushes, gleaming and shimmering in the light. It's absolutely gorgeous. Clearly Hallow has inherited her taste for colors and textures. This might actually be one of the prettiest areas of the garden now.

She hums approvingly and turns to head towards the palace itself. "Why don't we go rescue your father from Grimm and then we can have tea and snacks."

Hallow nods rapidly, practically beaming with delight. They do so enjoy their snacks and, despite not really needing much more than soul to survive, take great delight in hunting down every single food they can get their hands on.

Something about wanting to taste everything that is edible. To learn what they do and don't like to eat.

Camellia has definitely had to keep them from eating things in the garden after telling Hallow that it's edible. The herbs were fine, but she'd had to practically snatch the fruit pit they'd been trying to gnaw on out of their jaw.

She pushes the door open and steps through, Hallow close behind. The distant echo of her husband's voice filters down the long halls and Camellia turns towards it. Hallow tilts their head to the side and follows quickly. She can read the eagerness in their shoulders; how excited they are to stuff their face full of crackers.

Ambrosia's voice rings loudly, a high pitched screeching undertone that says he's nearing the end of his patience, and Camellia increases her pace. She turns a corner and pauses, snorting at the sight of them. Her husband is puffed up as big as he can get, wings splayed in a way that makes his robes fluff. Grimm is leaning over him and leering, red gaze hooded.

"Grimm," she calls, watching as both heads whip in her direction. "If you're done flirting, would you like to join us for tea?"

The glorious memory of the flustered embarrassment on Grimm's face, the dawning, horrified realization on her husband's, and the way her child chokes in horror behind her will stay with her all day. 


	21. Mantis Lords

There is no ghost in the Mantis Village. 

Only a tired people, settling down for the night. 

Their dreams are messy, tinged on the edges with orange, but they hold strong and turn their faces away. The infection will not grab them, will not come to collect their free will, will not turn them against their family. 

(Mantis Lord Keiza being infected is a truth that all try to ignore. He would not betray them like that. He wouldn't, he wouldn't, _he wouldn't_.)

(He is.)

(No more.)

It's Mantis Lord Vatina who first realizes that something is wrong. When the Fungal Wastes lighten in their approximation of day, and Lord Keiza has yet to appear. When both her and her two sisters still in their chairs, and tilt their heads sideways like they're tracking something.

(The scent of hemolymph, thick and heavy in the air.)

They drop down from their thrones and exchange quick glances. Giosa and Caria grab their weapons, nervously wrapping their hands around the hilts. They may be strong and agile to a ridiculous degree, but Keiza hits like a Great Hopper. His size and brutal strength have always been his area of expertise.

If they had to face him, infected and insane, they could not guarantee their win. At least, not without heavy losses.

Vatina flicks her hands, motioning for her sisters to follow her down the hall towards Keiza's room. Freya is not in the vicinity presently, having slipped out to spend time with the outsider. For once, Vatina is grateful. Hopefully they will be able to spare her of this agony.

The death of a father is a very painful thing, after all. They could not subject her to something of this matter.   
Besides, they are the Mantis Lords. If one of their own is infected by the burning light, then it is their duty to take care of it. Even if it's their own brother. Fellow ruler of the tribe. Someone who is supposed to be immune to Her lies, the tricks that She likes to wield. 

She would do anything to bring the kingdom back under Her power again, especially if it means no one would ever forget Her again. No more free will, no more choosing one's own fate, no more finding ones own path. It is merely the light and Her will.

The Mantis Tribe would rather die than be under that sort of power. Their traditions would be stripped away, their culture and food reduced to nothing. Under Radiance, everyone would be exactly the same. No mind to think, no will to break, no voice to cry suffering.

Vatina waves a hand to her sisters and closes her eyes, pained. They draw in close to listen to her words, enough so that no one else will be able to hear them speak. For the better, seeing as this isn't the sort of subject to be discussed so openly. Slaughtering ones own kin is generally frowned upon. 

Freya would never forgive them. No matter how much her and her father fought, especially when it came to matters of the heart and the outsider Ze'mer, she still loves him. Still cares for him and tries her best to get her father to accept who she loves. Vatina has been present for many of their arguments, especially when Keiza is spitting mad but unable to express his anger in a way that isn't destructive. She's heard all of the arguments, all of the sides of the story. 

This is one story that she desperately hopes won't end any time soon. Keiza is still so young, still so capable of improving as a leader. But sometimes, one doesn't get a choice when a loved one exits their life. That exit is clumsy, like a jagged wound, torn open and exposed to the world.

Vatina shakes her head and gestures down the hall towards where their personal rooms are. Giosa and Caria nod sharply and heft their nails a little higher. She braces herself. Whatever they find, it's not going to be pretty.

Keiza's bedroom door, at the far end of the hall, is firmly locked, but the scent of hemolymph is incredibly strong. Vatina presses her face against the door, closing her eyes and listening carefully. She can't hear anything. Keiza's room is dead silent.

As silent as a grave.

She takes a few steps back and then lashes out with her nail, slamming the point into a weak spot in the door. Her sisters join her, slamming their nails in and yanking in opposite directions at her command. The door buckles at that point, the metal just thin enough to yield to their abuse.

The smell of hemolymph is overpowering and Vatina covers her nose.

They have to duck to get through the hole in the door and Vatina slides in first, gripping her nail tightly. Keiza's rooms are a set of three, consisting of a greeting room that leads into his bedroom and a personal bathing area. She glances towards the door leading to his bedroom and has to stifle a groan.

It, too, is locked.

Vatina curses and beckons her sisters forward. Together they manage to pry it open. She leans down to examine the hole, making sure that it's large enough that they can get through, and is instantly hit by the smell of hemolymph. It's incredibly strong here, to the point where she can't smell anything else, and Vatina exchanges a worried glance with her sisters.

What the hell had happened during the night?

She's going to find out, one way or another.

Getting her horns through this hole is a bit trickier due to its smaller size, but she manages. Vatina slides through and half-turns, getting out of the way for Giosa and Caria to make their way in. She turns towards where her brother's nest is and stills. Even in the dim lighting of the room, the sheer amount of hemolymph staining the surface of the nest is impossible to miss.

Keiza lays slumped half over on his side, unmoving.

There's a hole right through him.


	22. The Traitor's Child

There is a ghost in the Fungal Wastes.

There is a ghost of a mantis in the Fungal Wastes.

Freya is angry, so angry she can barely breathe. Either she leaves right now, or she's going to deck her father for being so damned stubborn.

Just this once she wishes he would listen to her. So what if Ze'mer hasn't completed the traditional fight against her aunts? Just because the Great Knight hasn't had the time to, never mind the fact that Freya hasn't even told her it's a thing--it doesn't mean that they have to treat her like she's a horrible being.

Like Freya is wrong for loving her.

So Freya runs. Hot, angry tears streak down her face as she goes, racing through the Fungal Wastes early in the morning. It's the only time she can get away from her tribe, when the rest of the Mantises are still slumbering. The only time she can risk sneaking out and know that she won't be caught.

Her aunts will cover her vanishing act for only so long. After that time has elapsed, she's on her own.

But seeing Ze'mer is more important than anything else. She needs to talk to her, needs to vent her anger, needs to do anything other than scream at the world. Her girlfriend doesn't deserve that.

(Maybe, if she's clever enough, she can hint to Ze'mer what she has to do to be accepted. The last few tries haven't been successful, though. Ze'mer just doesn't seem to be aware of the traditions that the Mantis Tribe follow. And Freya can't just come out and tell her.)

Freya leaps down a cliff and lands, only tripping slightly in her haste. Her twin blades bounce against her back, a familiar, heavy weight. The clearing where she is to meet Ze'mer looms ahead and Freya stumbles into it, rubbing her face free of tears.

Ze'mer is already waiting and she looks up, serene expression becoming alarmed at the sight of Freya. "Meled'lover!" she exclaims, getting up from where she had been sitting, thoroughly cleaning her lance. "Is something wrong?"

"I, no," Freya says, then shuts her mouth at the look on Ze'mer's face. It's clear her girlfriend doesn't believe her. She sniffles and steps forward, relaxing when she's pulled into a hug. Ze'mer is quite a bit taller than her, and Freya can't stop a weak laugh when she feels her chin rest against her head. She nuzzles into the hug and breathes in slowly, trying to calm her racing heart.

"Mi! Meled'lover," Ze'mer says softly, and Freya can hear her start humming. She takes a few steps back, pulling Freya with her, and settles down onto the ground. Freya crawls into her lap and rests her face onto Ze'mer's shoulders. She can feel arms settle around her waist and the song Ze'mer hums grows louder. She doesn't recognize it, but it's soothing. Freya sniffs. One of the hand shifts so it's rubbing against her back. For a long while, they just rest in the sound of Ze'mer's song.

Eventually Ze'mer heaves a sigh. "Does le'mer," she starts, then pauses for a moment. "Meled'lover wishes to speak about le'mer's misgivings?"

Instantly, all of Freya's anger comes rushing back. She seethes furiously, almost vibrating with anger, and has to take several quick breaths to sooth herself. "Father is a stubborn fool," she snarls.

Ze'mer's expression grows pinched, so much so that Freya can see it even through the mask. "Mi! Le'mers father is determined to keep us apart. Che' wish che' knew how to make it better."

For a moment. Freya finds herself with her mouth open, ready to spill the secret of the Mantis Tribe's engagements. She barely catches herself, swallowing back the words that so desperately wish to come out. It would be so easy to tell her, to blurt out the reason why Ze'mer has yet to be accepted, but that would be going against everything she knows. It would be going against all of her Tribe's traditions. Freya shuts her mouth.

She leans back a little so she can look up at Ze'mer and shakes her head. "He'll be stubborn for as long as I can't convince him." Freya's smile is watery. Pulling away from the warmth of Ze'mer's hug is almost painful, but she gets to her feet. "Will you spar with me?"

Ze'mer does not look convinced at all. Clearly she's had multiple interactions with her would be father-in-law. Enough, at least, to be well aware of Lord Keiza's ridiculously stubborn nature. Freya tries not to sigh. Her father won't be changing his mind about their relationship any time soon.

Freya takes several steps backwards and draws both her blades, twirling them with a long sense of ease. She's had them for years, and they've yet to fail her once.

(She doesn't think about her mother's death. No. The one time she wasn't armed, when she needed them the most. Her greatest failure.)

Ze'mer kicks her cleaning supplies out of the way. Freya can see the way the Great Knight winces at it, but she straightens up anyway, lance in hand. It's long and heavy, far bigger than any of her aunt's lances, and is capable of dishing out massive amounts of damage. Freya knows full well that Ze'mer shouldn't be able to move as fast as she does with it.

Her blades cross slightly in front of her and Freya tilts down into a defensive position, just slightly too high. The second Ze'mer moves, whether its to charge or to swing, Freya will be out of her range. While Ze'mer's greatest strength is her power and agility, Freya can move like the wind.

The Great Knight's eyes narrow and Freya smirks. Ze'mer lunges forward, freshly cleaned lance gleaming in the light. Freya dances out of the way, one of her blades neatly sliding along the length of it, directing its momentum elsewhere. Ze'mer spins, easily with it, swinging her weight around to make it turn.

They face off again, this time on opposite sides of the clearing. 

Freya leaps forward, both blades swinging down, and Ze'mer brings her lance up like a shield. Her blades bounce off of the metal, the sound ringing through the clearing, and she leaps backwards.

There's a sound like thunder, heavy, panicked footsteps. One of the younger warriors bursts into the clearing, gaze swinging around until it lands on Freya.

"Lady Freya! You must come quickly! Your father has been stabbed!"


	23. The Traitor Lord

There is a ghost in the Mantis Village.

There is a ghost of a lord in the Mantis Village.

This lord is cocooned in light, sickly orange surrounding him tightly. He can barely breathe, body shuddering as the burning sun presses down upon him from all sides. A punishment for refusing to fight.

Keiza takes it gladly. He wouldn't be able to live with himself had he harmed a child. The little ghost reminds him too much of his own daughter, now estranged from him. He couldn't possibly bring himself to raise his nail, much less actually hurt them.

Hemolymph drips from his mouth and the gaping wound in his chest, spilling freely down his body and his legs. It's yellow and green, no longer the sickly orange of infection, and Keiza takes solace in that.

He may be dying, but at least he's dying as a free Mantis and not a barely coherent slave to Her will.

Radiance's scream echoes through the dream, an edge of fear and terror in what used to be nothing but malevolent anger, and Kezia can't stop the smirk that crosses his face. Something is fighting Her, that much he can tell. Someone is fighting Her and winning. Good. He hopes She suffers, that Her last moments are as painful as his are.

Kezia can be as spiteful and petty as anyone else, he's just a little better at hiding it.

Black starts encroaching on his vision and it takes him a moment to register it, the movement is that slow. He peers at it and the way the orange struggles against the flow. It's not his vision that's going out, it's the dream that's slowly being consumed by the creeping shadows. The movement stills, then pulls away, orange momentarily overpowering.

Somewhere above him, Radiance wails Her death.

The darkness lunges upwards, swallowing him entirely and sending Keiza tumbling head over abdomen. He curses, instantly regretting the motion as his mouth is filled with viscous fluid. It tastes like nothing, but it's so cold he can no longer feel his mouth.

He struggles to spit it out, but his vision is quickly fading. The last thing he sees before he can't see anything at all is eight massive, glowing eyes.

Keiza takes victory in his death. He wishes he could have spoken to his daughter one last time, but this will do. He can be at peace with this ending.

And then he wakes up.

It's like slogging through the muds that come when the Fungal Wastes gets its rare, heavy storms. The kind of mud that sucks you down and pulls you under. He can't even flail or move. His body feels so heavy, like something is weighing him down and keeping him pinned. He can't breathe.

Then the pain hits him.

It's like he's just been stabbed.

Or, perhaps, Keiza considers, he has been stabbed. He'd been run through completely. It's just that he's now registering it. He considers the dream and decides that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a dream after all.

He remembers the little ghost and refusing to fight them. The bug in the mask on that golden throne. The sound of Radiance screaming in fury and pain. Those eight massive, glowing eyes looming over him.

(That gaze was terrifying, but oh so very kind.)

There's a heavy weight on his chest, pressing hard against his body. Keiza can't tell what it is, and moving to find out is definitely out of the question. His hearing is still fucked up, but it's slowly coming back. Slowly starting to register something other than the sheer, agonizing pain.

His sisters are calling his name.

Keiza struggles to drag himself to the surface, becoming more aware of sensations around him. He can feel his nest, soaked to the brim with his own blood, can feel his sisters desperately trying to staunch the flow, can feel the rough scratch of blankets pressed against the wound.

He wheezes, forcing his eyes open. Blood smears his mouth and Keiza tries to force his vision to focus, room blurring into focus. Vatina hovers over him, fear and worry written clear across her face. It must be Caria or Giosa pressing his wound then.

It takes his sister a solid three seconds to realize he's awake.

She gasps, and then frantically calls to one of the others for more cloth. Keiza barely hears what she says, too focused on staying awake. A cloth is pressed against his face and he leans into it, letting her wipe away his blood. She pulls back and grabs a bottle from the dresser.

Vatina presses the opening of the bottle against his mouth and tilts it back. He chokes a little, but manages to swallow it all down. Sour-sweet, but not sickly. Keiza recognizes it, closing his eyes in relief. Lifeblood, mixed with something to dull his pain. Gods, but he wishes he'd gotten some of this sooner. 

The pain starts fading almost immediately and he relaxes, slumping against his nest. He hadn't realized how tense he was, how much agony he was in until it starts to disappear. His sisters work quickly to stuff and bind his wounds, not stopping until Keiza finally starts to grumble in annoyance.

They slump by him in relief. Vatina quickly dismisses everyone else, sending one of the senior warriors to deal with the rest of the Tribe. Keiza scowls when their gazes turn back to him, intense and focused.

"Keiza," Vatina says. Her voice trembles. She's afraid. He understands well. He'd gone to bed last night, a little fucked up from Radiance but perfectly fine, and then had gotten stabbed. Viciously. His chest plates had been caved in almost completely, gouging into him and spilling his flesh and blood. Keiza had lost so much blood, his nest had been soaked with it.

It's not a good look, especially for village security. 

He breathes in slow and steady, feeling the way every part of his body aches. "I'm fine," Keiza manages, hand shifting to press against his bandaged wound.

Vatina's eyes narrow. "You most certainly are not! Keiza, you were stabbed! In the village! I'm going to ream whoever was on watch!"

Keiza groans. "Don't, Vatina. They had nothing to do with this." He attempts to sit up and is quickly pushed back down. "Let me get up, sister. I want to stop lying in my own blood."

Giosa huffs a breath of annoyance at his words. It takes all three of his sisters to drag him to his feet and even then Keiza can't manage more than a few steps before collapsing into a new nest. "What in God's name happened to you, Keiza? You were fine last night!"

"No, I was not," Keiza retorts. "I was infected."

His sisters fall dead silent. Clearly they were already aware of this. Keiza doesn't know how to take that. "Was?" Giosa finally asks, slowly.

Keiza, from where he's flopped down onto a clean pile of blankets, rolls his eyes. "Was," he repeats. "Radiance called me into a dream arena to fight. I refused. She forced the wounds I took in that dream fight as punishment." He grins, bloodily. "The bitch died to a ghost. Best damn thing I've ever seen."

He pauses, and then hums. "A ghost has been reborn into a God," Keiza murmurs, and pretends to not see the very alarmed glance his sisters exchange. 

Well, that's one way to witness an ascension. Keiza could do with less stabbing next time. He supposes he'll have to give a gift to the ghost the next time they decide to visit the village.


	24. Quirrel

There are no ghosts in Fog Canyon.

There are no ghosts in the Archives.

At least, not anymore.

It's been a while since Quirrel saw the ghost vanishing deeper into Fog Canyon. Been some time since he crashed into Monomon's office, pale enough to match his mask. Some time since she calmed him down enough that his words were less a garbled mess and more coherent.

He's not quite sure she believed him, right up to the point when he described the ghost's small size, mask, and nail right down the minute details. The tears made up of deep inky void are new, though.

Quirrel finds himself shaking, body almost vibrating. Monomon brings him a blanket, woven thick and warm, and drapes it around his form. He presses back into it and drops his head between his knees, just breathing slowly. Something almost like panic, but not quite, is pressing against his lungs, making it difficult to suck in air.

Monomon returns moments later, shoving an ice cold drink into his hands. The sharp stinging sensation immediately drags him to the surface. Quirrel doesn't know how she got it this cold without it freezing and he finds himself staring at it in fascination. There are a few berries floating on top of the liquid. He knows already that they're the sour kind, and that Monomon will be expecting him to eat them.

One at a time, he picks them out and bites into the small berries. They're disgustingly sour, so far past tart that he finds himself almost recoiling at the taste. But it gives him something else to focus on other than panic, so he bears with the taste.

She sweeps back into the room without hesitation and slaps down a plate of food. Quirrel eyes it cautiously, ignoring the way she frowns and shoves it forward. Monomon, despite being known for many things, is a worse cook than Quirrel. And that's saying something.

He gets easily distracted and accidentally burns things. She wants to experiment. Quirrel has long since learned to not eat anything she offers him unless he can confirm what it is and what went into it.

"Ah," Quirrel begins, nervously reaching out to pick up one of the meats. Monomon sighs heavily and takes one herself, slipping up her mask to pop it into her mouth.

"I am fully aware of my reputation," she says, dry as dust. "Lehir made these."

That is much more reasonable. While not the best cook, that honor goes to Seriya, Lehir is a perfectly respectable cook in the kitchen. Now reassured that he isn't going to be randomly poisoned by one of his Lady's experiments, Quirrel pushes his mask up just enough to reach his mouth and reaches for another. She sighs at him, fondness and amusement, and together they lick the platter clean.

Only once it is empty does she set it aside and turn her gaze towards him. 'You should rest," Monomon decides.

Quirrel immediately opens his mouth to object, but she holds up a hand before he can complain.

"I mean it, Quirrel. You've gone through a multitude of emotional stages and I know for a fact that you're shaking still." Her gaze flickers down to his hands and Quirrel follows. He is still shaking, fingers twitching in the light spilling into the room. "If you drop a tablet while you're like this and, stars forbid, accidentally break it, you will never forgive yourself."

That's very true, as much as Quirrel doesn't like to admit it. He is a bit notorious for being overly harsh on himself whenever something goes wrong. Monomon has done her best to help him get out of that habit to no avail. 

She points to the door and a very firm expression settles into the lines of her shoulders. "Outside. Take a book and a drink. I don't want to see you back in here for at least a few hours. Minimum."

He gets to his feet and collects the glass, refilling it from the pitcher on the desk. The book Quirrel had been planning on reading had been carelessly tossed aside and he collects it from its place, hanging halfway off the chair and dangerously close to crashing down to the floor.

Quirrel moves to the doorway and turns back to face Monomon. She tilts her head in a mimicry of a raised brow and he can't stop the cheeky smirk. "Of course, mother," he says, and then flees the room when she chucks a scroll at his head.

Quirrel cackles all the way down the hallway, only stopping when he runs out of air and has to breathe. He presses the book against his chest and takes the steps two at a time, leaping onto the floor at the bottom with a grin. No matter how many times he's done it, there's still a thrill of calling the Madam "Mother". In a way, he does consider her his pseudo parent, especially when she took him in after his own parents ditched him.

It doesn't matter how many times she denies it, he knows that she considers him her kid. Especially after the last incident when one of the visiting guards from the city tried to get handsy with him.

(He'd never seen her be so angry before. Monomon had bellowed herself hoarse at the guard, and then at Lurien when he came to see what was going on. The Watcher had been just as upset once he found out what was going on, though, and the handsy guard had quickly been fired.)

It's warm outside and Quirrel basks in the warmth, humming in pleasure. He makes his way to one of the few trees nearby and drops beneath it, stretching out lazily. Quirrel opens the book and starts reading, letting his eyes hood as he reads a particularly raunchy passage. He's honestly a little amazed he managed to get out with this book without Monomon seeing the title. She would have held this over his head forever had she seen it.

He turns the page and admires the art on the next one, a glorious drawing that had been lovingly depicted by the artist in great detail. Quirrel hums softly in appreciation and then flips the page again, once again immersing himself in the story. What little story it had sprinkled among the more, ah, interesting bits.

"Dammit," someone else mutters nearby, and Quirrel pauses, then removes his nose from the book. There's a stranger standing at the entrance to the Teacher's Archives, staring up at it with the air of the annoyed. Quirrel blinks. Whoever they are, they're clearly very lost if they didn't mean to come here. 

"Do you need assistance?" he calls, idly marking his place with a thin plaque. The stranger turns, whip sharp, and Quirrel tilts his head to the side. Tall, maybe a little taller than him, with a deep blue hood and a shield. 

Something tells him that this stranger is going to be interesting, indeed.


End file.
